


Stumbling on a Flat Surface

by quaid_poppinjack



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Crowley Has All the Genders (Good Omens), Crowley and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Emotional Baggage, Finding your way, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Genderfluid Character, Intrigue, James Bond References, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Madame tracy and Aziraphale friendship (good omens), Possessive Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Apocalypse, The Them will end up the Scoobies if I keep this up (good omens), Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), angels are meant to be celibate, drunken rambling, fumbling though the beginnings of a relationship, genitalia roulette, gratuitous eye sex, morality questions, mr. aziraphales neighborhood (good omens), no bashing newt pulsifer here (good omens), sexual awakenings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-08-14 12:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaid_poppinjack/pseuds/quaid_poppinjack
Summary: When something changes within Aziraphale after sharing a body with Madame Tracy, Crowley is eager to get involved. But what seems like a simple new step toward humanity reveals a mystery that's tangled together Heaven and Hell in a way that has both Crowley and Aziraphale worried and the Antichrist taking notice.~~~~~~“Yes, well, I met up with Miss Marjorie Potts, as you know, we were engaged in a very long intercourse on sex  and-”Crowley skidded to a halt right outside and unintentionally tripped up two people in his way. “Wait, what? You what? Where? Who? Aziraphale?” he said.“Madame Tracy? Miss Potts? I shared her body recently?”“Come again?” He said. He rounded a corner so he could stop and lean up against the building brickwork.“Oh Crowley. It was uncomfortable but informative, but in public! I suppose we could've come back to the shop for a bit of privacy, but I learned so much!”“I bet,” Crowley said under his breath.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had two ideas when starting this story. I wanted to explore an idea for where Heaven insists angels be chaste, celibate beings, something which Aziraphale struggles with, particularly after sharing a body with Madame Tracy. I also wanted to build on the beginnings of the interactions we see between Aziraphale and Crowley and the human characters now that they've thrown their lot in with humanity. 
> 
> Also, since I've had some questions, for this particular story, My HC is that Aziraphale identifies his gender as basically- Angel. He's picked pronouns and appearance and how he wants to present and stuck with it. Crowley is genderfluid on a spectrum, identifies however they feel like at the time, presents however they're feeling. Crowley's genderfluidity is based upon one of my dearest friends and how they handle themselves and how we've related to each other since high school before we knew there was a word for it. I don't claim to represent everyone's experiences.

Aziraphale had a monthly ritual of shopping for loose leaf tea at an exclusive spot not far from his bookshop. On this day, he meant to refresh his entire stock. He was grateful to Adam for the replacement of many things, but bubblegum flavored tea was beyond the pale. 

Besides, Tea-Time featured a variety of gourmet chocolates one could melt into a delightful cup of cocoa. He tended to enjoy browsing over the selection, but his heart wasn't quite in it. Lately, he felt so insecure and reluctant. So much had changed in the last few weeks, with too many emotions and heartache and with open doors he thought well shut. He was struggling to adjust and hoped his old routines would comfort some of the uncertainty.

He wavered over Callebaut and Scharffen Berger chocolates between distracted side glances at the front counter. Aziraphale had patronized this shop for many years. Today was the first day he truly noticed the shop keeper. In fact, he was flustered to realize his attention wouldn't _stop_ drifting to the young gentleman. Tall, byronic, sprawled across the checkout counter with eyes attentively devouring a copy of _Northanger Abbey_. Aziraphale experienced a sharp flare of heat and hunger as if he'd just been offered a luxurious dessert. 

How Odd.

He made his selection, quietly completed his transaction with the gentleman, blessed him and rushed out. 

The world was remade. The apocalypse diverted. He'd just recently gone to Hell of all things, and here he was fumbling with his routine selection on a typical day with the usual shop attendant that he'd suddenly became aware of in a very indecent fashion? 

How Very Very Odd. 

He went on with his errands, things he'd put off and wanted to finish before Crowley returned from his 'Bentley Apology Road trip' (Crowley steadfastly denied it was #1 an apology and #2 a 'road trip' but Aziraphale secretly thought it charming.) 

He found himself at loose ends. It was disquieting, and it made him apprehensive. Who was he without his adamant faith? He certainly _felt_ different. In fact, he felt a little untethered and while Crowley might always enjoy and embrace a change, Aziraphale thought the last 200 years had moved much too quick, indeed even faster than the first few thousand years. 

He mused on these these thoughts while reacquainting with his neighborhood, drifting in and out of the less risque shops. It was certainly transitioning, still seedy in areas and becoming trendy in others. A low undercurrent of pure love infused wherever he went, but lately, he was ...aware...of a soft, burning eroticism like settling into a hot bath. It carried an edge he'd never realized before, a bit more sultry. 

It made him anxious. Was this Lust? Had his actions resisting Heaven's Plan pushed him onto a sinful path? What kind of a celestial being was he anyway at this point, he thought. Angels were meant to be sexless unless they made an effort, and he'd certainly not done so before. They were meant to be pure and unsullied, a vessel created for joyous adoration of the Lord. 

Aziraphale was always a passive but curious observer of carnal natures rather than drawn to taste and touch. However, on his way back to his shop, he couldn't resist a quick peek through the Tea-time windows at the human who'd triggered his musings. 

Odd indeed. 

~~~

The needle ticked at 110 and held on a straight-away without any sign of strain from the Bentley. Crowley felt a weight slip from his shoulders. Aziraphale might joke about apologizing to his car for what it had endured, but a piece that had been missing clicked into place once he'd driven for 17 hours straight without any particular destination in mind. Crowley was torn. He didn't want to leave Aziraphale alone so soon after everything that'd happened, but he needed to do this, and Aziraphale refused to budge on joining along. Their swap stunt seemed to have chased off Heaven and Hell for now, but he doubted it would stay that way.

The other unsatisfied itch beneath his wings he loathed to admit was the overwhelming desire to check on Warlock in the aftermath. Warlock had been shuffled into an expat boarding school, and it wouldn't be too much to swing by. He felt extraordinarily uncomfortable accepting the vulnerability and rolled his shoulders back as if to dislodge that feeling. 

He was debating on adopting Ashtoreth's manner and presence for the visit or lurking unrecognized when his phone lit up to indicate a call. This was also new, Aziraphale calling, seeking him out for a change, just for casual conversation and dinner and walks. 

“Aziraphale,” he sing-songed when he answered. He dropped his phone to the seat and left it on speaker. 

“Oh good! I wasn't sure I'd catch you,” Aziraphale said. 

“Everything alright there?” 

“Splendid. Finished sorting out the autobiographies yesterday, but I accidentally sold a book.”

Crowley failed to resist laughing. “How do you sell a book by accident?” 

“Oh, older woman, she wore me down a bit, widowed, lost everything in that awful flooding last year, remember it?” 

“Naah, not really. Oh, it'll be she, please, as of tomorrow,” he said, finally deciding.

“Of course, dearest, I hope you are enjoying yourself.”

Crowley passed between three cars the Bentley never should have fit through. “At a steady 110 popping along and sounds fabulous. And even the alignment is spot on,” he grudgingly admitted. 

“I'm happy for you,” he said lightly.

“Okay yeah, stop it.” 

Aziraphale went quiet for a moment. Crowley anxiously drummed his hands along the steering wheel and waited. 

“Crowley,” he said softly. “You'll be back soon? Not too long, I hope?” 

He sounded somewhat lost. It worried at Crowley. He felt Heaven had finally kicked Aziraphale in the face once too often, forcing him to struggle through a lake of ashes while Crowley could only watch desperately from the shoreline. He wanted to bundle him up, run away somewhere quiet, and shake the anguish loose from his eyes. 

“About a week, angel. Got something to take care of. I'll take you to lunch when I'm back?” 

“Oh good,” Aziraphale said. “Fine. Looking forward to it.” 

“Any plans?” he said, wanting to draw him out. 

“Not really.” There was a long pause. “There's an auction I might drop in on meant to have some rare books, but it didn't go into details.” He went almost alarmingly quiet again. 

“I can come back now, if you need,” Crowley said, aiming for nonchalant instead of desperate-are-you-okay-please-let-me-in-angel. 

That seemed to startle Aziraphale from his somber mood. “Oh Crowley, no. Everything's fine, no troublesome visitors, nothing like that! I think, perhaps, I've gotten a bit used to having you nearby. Ridiculous, I know,” he chucked weakly. 

Crowley gripped the steering wheel so tightly his hands ached. “Don't be stupid,” he said, just as quietly.

He heard Aziraphale sigh over the line. “I know, my dear. Alright. See you soon. Don't run over any hedgehogs, please.”

“I won't,” he lied and disconnected the call. 

Crowley was a little bit selfish. Okay, a lot selfish. He'd gotten comfortable seeing Aziraphale on nearly a daily basis. Without the excuse of The Arrangement or the apocalypse, who were they together? Best friends partnered against the wrath of other angels and demons? More? He wanted that. He desperately wanted that. In this world remade, it was the only infallible truth. 

~~~

Several days passed in which Aziraphale filled time puttering around his shop to catalog his new acquisitions and did some research regarding some of the things on his mind. He worked his way gradually through several bottles of a 2016 Antinori Tignanello while listening to Chopin and slogged through philosophical treatises on the virtues of temperance in regards to _eros _ in comparison to unrestrained _agape_. He finally dropped his head back onto the sofa in defeat and pulled his completely unnecessary reading glasses off.

The Archangels had often shamed him for 'going native' because of his indulgences and affinities. Aziraphale felt it was celebrating human experience and creativity, two very noble causes, in his opinion. Their disdain was palpable, though he would have never suspected it might end in his schism from Heaven. For fuck's sake, they were happy to kill him over his love of humanity. It was all too distressing, and he rolled his head just enough to slug the dregs of his wineglass. What did it matter now anyway if he belonged more to the Earth than Heaven? And what did that matter if he become one of the first angels in millennia to experience 'unrestrained eros'? 

None of this academic literature helped anyhow. At the very least, there wasn't an instruction manual for ethereal beings suddenly doused in lewd thoughts following thousands of years of chastity.

Physical chastity, he realized. He straightened up and tapped his fingertips across the page as he considered this. Because there had been times...well, he wasn't blind, he'd seen...things. It was only natural to be curious, perhaps imagine himself a participant of a romantic scene in a work of fiction, possibly catch a glimpse of an illicit liaison down an alleyway and wonder what it might be like. 

Aziraphale huffed a frustrated puff of breath and carefully closed the book propped upon his knees. He looked down again at his hand splayed across the back of his book and noticed how rough his nails appeared. “Ugh! This won't do!” he said aloud. The state of his hands seemed to reflect the tattered thoughts in his mind, but at least he could do something about this mess. He unburied himself from bookpiles and made for his manicurist. 

~~~

“Mr. Fell! It's been ages!” said the young woman working the front desk. Aziraphale felt more relaxed by just walking into the health and beauty shop. He hadn't realized how much he needed some quiet pampering. “I'm so sorry, dear Marie. I have been awfully busy and well,” he wiggled his fingers in a dainty wave, “This is unbearable.” 

“My station is open though, so why don't you make yourself comfortable. Same thing as last?” 

“Yes, please!” He settled into the sumptuous cushioning of the chair, leaned toward the table, and finally felt some of his tension release. He allowed his eyes to close for a moment and had a sudden intrusive image over what Gabriel might say if he'd found him here. Maybe he could jab him with an orange stick, Aziraphale thought, uncharitably. Marie, a tall, engaging woman flaunting intricate tattoos and piercings, joined him at her station to begin. He drifted while listening to her gentle chatting. She'd been his nail artist for several years now and was part-owner of this beauty and massage business.

“Wow, look at these, you have been through a lot.” 

“Oh you have no idea,” he said. He looked over at her and rolled his eyes bit more dramatically toward Heaven and then back toward the fingernail she was shaping. “I don't even feel like myself anymore,” he added a little too honestly. 

Marie switched hands with the file and nodded back at him. “We've all been there before, now haven't we? We'll get you set to rights, Mr. Fell. You missed a lot of the neighborhood gossip, you know.” 

“Or really?” He perked up a bit; He loved hearing about the goings on of his beloved neighborhood as long as said neighborhood remained outside of his shop. “Do tell?”

“Oh well, you really missed all the talk last week. Some of my friends and I, we had nearly the same nightmare about getting stuck on the M25 and exploding in flames!” 

Aziraphale's smile drooped. “Oh- how interesting,” he said and wiggled uncomfortably in the chair. “Must be a strange coincidence.” 

“And not only that, three of my clients who don't know each other at all all said they could _swear_ they saw space aliens and UFOs just outside the green belt!” She began carefully rubbing lotion into his cuticles. “But can't remember details! Isn't that interesting?” 

All the anxiousness rushed back. “Spooky!” he said. “But of course, everything's fine now? No spacemen out to get you?”

“I wouldn't mind being captured by a spaceman,” she said and shot him a playful grin. “You know what aliens always want to do when they come to the planet and see a bunch of attractive humans!”

“I'm quite sure I don't?” 

“Oh silly Mr. Fell,” she teased. “Let's see, what else, Nadar sold his tobacco shop for three times what it's worth, did you hear that? Getting snobby around here. But the other adult store, not the one by you, that expanded, so maybe two steps forward one back?” 

He nodded vaguely. 

And look, you missed my new ink,” she said, and tilted her head to sweep fingertips slowly from her collarbone to just near her earlobe, tracing her neck to point out the little Celtic design newly there. Aziraphale experienced an unexpected rush of heat so abrupt it gut-punched him and curled his toes.

He jumped suddenly to his feet, startling Marie. 

“What's wrong?” she asked and scrambled to catch a knocked over bottle. 

“Oh dear, I'm so sorry,” he said, flustered. “I just- suddenly remembered an...appointment I'd forgotten. Just popped in there." He flapped one hand by his ear that was meant to indicate 'thinking' but came off as 'completely disoriented' and added, “It's fine.” 

He bit his lip to stop babbling and looked at her concerned eyes. This was getting ridiculous, in all these years, he'd never wanted to lick someone's neck, never even dwelled on such a thought, but everything else seemed so preposterous by now he could only just slump back down again and place his hands back onto the nailbar. “I'm so sorry, dear girl, go ahead and finish.”

“Wow, Mr. Fell, you weren't kidding about the rough few weeks. You know, if you're this stressed, William gives massage here too?” she offered, gesturing to a well-built handsome man clad in a halfway buttoned white silk shirt and skin-tight leather trousers leaning against the back wall of the health and beauty salon like an over-dramatic cover a romance novel. 

Aziraphale swallowed again and touched his yet unpainted fingertips to his lips. Bugger. “Um. No thank you.”  
~~~~

Several days later, Crowley had called with place and time, so Aziraphale made his way to a restaurant they both enjoyed. He went on foot but encountered some some roadblocks due to protests (he didn't particularly pay attention to the subject but contemplated protesting the protesters in his way) and therefore ended up a little late and lot ruffled. He located Crowley just settling in and snagged the sommelier to order something a little higher end. 

Crowley still appeared to be presenting female and hadn't instructed Aziraphale otherwise. She looked a little like Nanny Ashteroth moonlighting as Pussy Galore with her ginger hair down, curling lightly around her shoulders. She wore a dark buttoned up two-piece trouser suit over glossy black satin shirt and heels. Aziraphale slid into the seat next to her and collected himself, babbling, “I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting, it's atrocious out there, had to go out of my way because of all the foot traffic, honestly, what is going on today?” He folded his hands tightly but some of the stress drained at the sight of his friend. 

Crowley cocked her head impishly. “Hello to you too, Aziraphale!” she said and lounged back further into her seat. “Don't have the first clue, didn't even notice it, probably politics,” she added with distaste. 

“Yes, hello, apologies for my appalling manners, you're looking lovely today. Feeling any better?” he added. He paused as the sommelier attended their table and left the bottle. 

Crowley's eyebrows lifted at the vintage. “Going big today, I see?” she said. “I already ordered for us, angel, not sure it pairs with a Bordeaux, but who's watching?” 

Aziraphale felt both nervous and elated. “I guess no one, really,” he said, clearly not speaking of the wine pairing. Crowley smiled thinly and reached for her glass. 

“Not so sure about that, but I didn't see or sense anything and I drove clear north. Drove all over,” she boasted. 

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at her in suspicion and finally slapped the table once in comprehension. “You visited Warlock at the new boarding school, you wile old serpent, didn't you?” he said airily and slightly accusing. He couldn't resist a fond smile. 

“I did invite you,” Crowley grumped. She adjusted her slouch at the table and seemed petulant and flustered at being seen as soft.

“I've had enough excitement in the last few weeks. I was_ not _ready to spend another fortnight clinging to the Bentley during your reckless joyride, thank you. How was your apology road trip anyhow?' he asked. 

“Wasn't a road trip,” she snarled lightly. “I wanted to open her up outside the city, make sure the antichrist put her parts together right,” she said, wry smile upon her lips. “'S not like an eleven year old knows engine mechanics, Satan's son or not.”

Aziraphale felt a wave of affection for her. “And how is young Warlock? Suitably normal?”

“The boy's already got himself a little gang of brats,” she said, clearly proud. “He seems happy to be away from his father.” Aziraphale shivered; He never did enjoy Mr. Dowling. 

“That's was sweet of you to visit him.”

Crowley slouched and mumbled, “Not sweet, just wanted to make sure he's in line. Don't want all that work to go to waste.” Her light blush betrayed her words but Aziraphale let it lie. 

“Where did you go?”

“Around. Needed some time, you know? Nothing _end of the world_,” she scoffed, dragging out the 'o' in world and sweeping one hand through the air. “You would've liked it.” She wrinkled her nose and said with mock disgust, “Dusty little antique shops and touristy junk, a decent art gallery, a bistro with a ridiculous queue for such a small village. But right out of town it's isolated. Room to spread the wings, quite literally.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “I don't remember the last time I've flown.” 

“I'd like to take you there this autumn,” Crowley said softly. Aziraphale opened his eyes to look over at Crowley and tried to read her expression through her sunglasses. She was staring directly at him and after a long pause where they both just studied each other, she added, “I bet your wings are in atrocious shape, mine were.”

“No.” Aziraphale looked down at his hand and started fiddling with his pinky ring. “Adam put them to rights, oddly enough.” His eyes flicked back over at her, but still he kept his attention downturned. “I didn't do much this week, picked up a few books, tried that new fusion place. How was the bistro?”

“I don't _eat without you,_” Crowley drawled like it was a stone cold fact Aziraphale had merely forgotten. “I stopped at a pub, nibbled the crisps, tried a bland local red.” She made a face and stuck her tongue out in displeasure.

He just hummed in response. He had really missed Crowley recently, missed their routines and time together. He was disturbed to think they might return to their sporadic meetings from past, or more distressingly, perhaps drift apart without arrangements or antichrists linking them together. That concern seemed to be increasingly misplaced, he was beginning to acknowledge. Crowley called upon him frequently and had asked to run off with him when the outlook seemed bleak. He wondered if it stemmed from situational desperation or if the proposition had legs. In either case, Crowley certainly had always spent a lot of time quietly staring with a disconcerting intensity that confused him.

She was, in fact, doing it right now. 

The waiter brought their food, and Aziraphale was relieved for the distraction. He attended to it, enthusiastic, and unabashedly watched Crowley from the corner of his eye. 

She was in the middle of stretching sinuously to roll her shoulders back and then rolled her neck until it popped softly, mumbling, “a little too long in the car,” to herself. She reached for the 1990 Chateau Petrus across the table, mostly ignoring the food placed before her. “Maybe we'll try that red again, it wasn't so bad. Nothing on this though,” she said, admiring the bottle. She glanced over at Aziraphale, lips quirked in a curious half smile. “Spoiling yourself lately, angel?” she teased as she refilled her glass before gesturing for him to lift his own for a touch-up. Her fingers brushed his on the stem as she helped steady the glass. 

Aziraphale blinked. Twice. 

“We should visit Adam, check on Tadfield,” Aziraphale blurted. “It's been over two weeks. See how he's going along,” he added awkwardly and took a very deep drink to shut himself up. 

Crowley looked uncertain at the suggestion. She brushed her hair back behind her ear and said, “Oh, I suppose if that's what you want.” Then she rested her chin on her fist and with small quirk of a smile leaned forward to slide the remainder of her unfinished meal to Aziraphale. “Nexssst week?”she suggested, but Aziraphale altogether missed it because his brain had shuttered to a complete stop. 

He stared at the snake marking resting near the curve of Crowley's ear and flashed back heatedly to his surprising reaction to his nail tech tracing her ink. Followed directly by recalling his unexpectedly impure thoughts over the Tea-time employee, who in retrospect, was strikingly similar to Crowley's preferred male presentation. And to his complete and utter bewilderment, his imagination tumbled headlong into a fantasy of crawling into Crowley's lap and pinning her down to trace his tongue along the curve of her jaw. He sat, frozen, with a bite of roast beef suspended in the air on his fork feeling completely rattled.

Well wasn't _this_ exactly what he didn't need. 

Of course he loved Crowley. He was comfortable with it. Loved Crowley's heart, the sneaky kindness, the cleverness. But until about 5 minutes ago, it'd been a chaste non-physical sort of admiration. He became keenly aware his mind had checked-out for an uncertain amount of time because Crowley was watching him with a curious amusement, a puzzled quirk to her lips.

And oh dear, had it gotten hot in here? 

“Okay there, angel?” Crowley asked, her voice shifting from amused to concerned. She reached and rested her fingertips on his wrist. 

Aziraphale stuffed the roast beef into his mouth and nodded aggressively. 

~~~

Crowley offered a lift back that he accepted with slight hesitance. He still felt unusually frazzled by his curious emotions, but he also drew comfort from being nearby his friend, so he clambered into the Bentley. 

“I'll drop you off but won't come in,” she said and pulled away entirely too fast for a a crowded street. “I still haven't been home and I _know_ there'll be a botanical delinquent with me being gone nearly two weeks. Probably that cheeky jade,” she accused. 

“I didn't realize you just returned to London,” Aziraphale said. “we could have waited.”

“What for?”

And Aziraphale didn't know how to feel about that, about how she had come straight back from her trip to see him rather than return to her flat. He grabbed onto the seat tighter as they whipped around a curve, then shot an irritated glare over at Crowley for her driving.

She seemed content, which was not a word he'd normally used for Crowley. No matter when she appeared in Aziraphale's life, no matter how she presented, she'd always straddled a line between coiled tension and luxurious sloth. Today, though, she appeared more at ease than he'd seen in a long time. 

They pulled up in front of the bookshop and she hopped out, leaving the engine running. “Give me a few days,” she said, circling around the Bentley to lean against the passenger side, arms folded across her chest. “I have a few more ends to tie up.” 

“That's fine,” Aziraphale said. He shut his door and took several steps backwards onto the sidewalk, still facing Crowley, hands clasped behind his back. “I have a few books I'd like to speak to Ms. Device about if she's still in Tadfield. Oh I do hope she's still in town! The opportunity to speak to a direct descendant of Agnes Nutter is hard to pass by,” he fussed. 

“I'll scrounge something up on AirBnB. That was one of mine, you know?” she said, nodding as if accepting a thank-you from the world. “So much potential for low and high grade irritation.” 

“Air Bee n Bee?” Aziraphale repeated, confused.

Crowley smirked playfully and crossed her ankles. “Oh angel, you're too easy. We'll teach you some 21st century vocabulary yet.” 

“My vocabulary is perfectly serviceable, I'll have you know,” he said, not particularly offended. “So see you in a few days?” he added. 

“Don't do anything I'd do,” she said with a coquettish tilt to her head. “Or maybe you should,” she coaxed. She moved fluidly from the car and circled back to the driver's side. 

“Crowley!” he scolded, ignoring how he felt his face flush. He turned, shaking his head and heard the Bentley drive off.

~~~

He made for his doorway, thoughts muddled, and then stopped. Since the early 1960s, a shop had moved in the space adjoining his bookshop, _Intimate Books_. Occasionally, customers would mistake his own for it, and he chided them along to the correct place. He'd never actually gone in and recklessly wondered why. He certainly kept classic erotic literature and salacious poetry in his collection, some works were downright bawdy. Was this just the more modern version?

He took two more steps toward his door, stopped, licked his lips, and turned his head toward his neighbor. Perhaps there'd be answers to questions he didn't know yet? But it wasn't very angelic, he reasoned. He stood near his own door now, fiddling with his pinky ring again. The Archangels had looked like absolute fools when they'd visited his shop, prattling on about pornography; they were clueless, and why wouldn't they be with such a taboo since the nephilim's existence? He knew Crowley was well versed in such things to the point of complaining over the tediousness of temptations involving seductions. Aziraphale was uncomfortably aware he'd never been asked by Crowley to do anything like that when performing demonic temptations during The Arrangement. 

He puffed out a breath, pursed his lips and headed to Intimate Books. It was fairly empty inside other than an employee that mumbled a greeting, so he ducked down a random aisle and looked around with detached interest. Well, there _were_ books, but also films, candles, lotions, and an entire aisle that looked more at place in a hardware store than somewhere professing intimacy. He shivered unpleasantly and retreated back to the books, skipping the magazines, which he found to be entirely too graphic. It was all overwhelming, but also startling in what he already recognized or had read about or been witness to as an observer of human behavior. 

“Mr. Fell, from next door?” said a tall, burly gentleman with shaggy hair, full beard, and gaudily colored shirt from the end of the aisle. Aziraphale's head jerked up from the book on 'Inclusive Erogenous Zones' in his hands, and he fumbled it back on the shelf. 

“Yes?” he said, then recognized the owner he'd met in passing. “Oh, yes, hello!” He clasped his hands loosely over his stomach, but his smile was guarded. 

“Oh man, I wanted to catch you one day. I saw you at the Admiral with that leather twink a while back, but then you disappeared before I had a minute to chat.”

“I. Well. I'm in town now. For a few days.” 

“Great! Good to see you out! So many customers complain to me about your hours!” 

“Ah, yes, I see. They are listed on my door, of course,” he said somewhat haughtily and raised his eyebrows. “Clearly visible. In black ink!” he added. 

The owner threw his hands up in justification. “No problem here, man. I was just wondering. With such whacky hours, how on earth do you stay open? Some of us thought it was a front for the mafia, isn't that crazy? But look at you, man. No way you're mafia, maybe rainbow mafia,” he laughed aloud at his joke. “But you are way too nice an old queen for that. We get everybody in here, man, it's Soho!” 

Aziraphale found himself bemused at the owner's obnoxiousness but couldn’t exactly tell him he'd purchased the land and shop 300 years prior through minor miracle. He smiled a little nervously. “I am proprietor of a very rare book shop, which as you might know, some books can be quite lucrative!” He pointed in the air with one recently manicured fingertip and then waved his hand in the direction of his shop.” And might I add, I tend to have your customers wander into my shop occasionally.” 

“That's killer,” he laughed again. “Well, I'm Robert, so if you need anything, let me know, I'll give you a neighborhood discount. Hey we got toys on sale this week, discount on leather products, let me know what you're into, and I'll make a deal!” 

“Er,” Aziraphale said, his eyes widening during Robert's offer. “Quite. Very kind. Thank you,” he settled on, nodding. “I'll keep that in mind,” he stuttered, growing flustered again. He began eying the door. 

“Oh and here,” Robert thrust several pamphlets out and Aziraphale grabbed them without thinking. “Some neighborhood happenings, things in the scene, you get the drift.” 

“Yes, thank you again!” He said and beelined for the exit, not stopping even when Robert called out, “And don't be a stranger, man!” 

He went straight through his own door directly to his sofa and sat stiffly perched at the end. “Well good Lord that was certainly something,” he said, shaking his head. He realized he still clutched the papers from Robert and flipped through them, discarding most and and giving a second look at one that proclaimed in purple letters, 'Magic Show! At the new Soho based Garden Underground, Time Out London's new pick for LGBTQ+ nightlife!!'

He jumped back up and set that one on his desk, then remained there, grabbing the back of his chair, lost in thought. Too much was happening too fast with too many new emotions. 

He might not Fall, but he was going to crash.


	2. Chapter 2

There were spots. But not on the jade, as Crowley had suspected. She held the alocasia by it's stem above the soil line and shook it in a wide arc. “Twelve days!” she roared. She paced slowly along the the plants gathered on tables and shelving, glaring at the surrounding greenery. “I was gone for twelve days. You have _ideal_ conditions, automatic watering, desiring of _nothing_, you should be ashamed of yourselves!”

The smaller pots trembled and the unusually robust schefflera spread it's glossy leaves in supplication. A vine curled outward so its tendrils appeared sprightly. 

Crowley narrowed her eyes at a philodendron in the corner, stalked up to it and snatched at it with her free hand. She held it close and inspected a juvenile leaf. The plants froze in their pots, waiting for judgment. 

“I'm leaving again in two days and there will not be a repeat. Or else,” she said ominously, shaking the unfortunate alocasia at the remaining plants. She looked again at the philodendron and slid her fingers along the midvein before releasing the leaf. “Do. You. Understand?” she spit and spun to leave the room, failed plant in hand. 

She walked quickly through her flat and snapped her fingers to switch on the television as she passed, never slowing her stride until she was in her kitchen. She flung the potted plant, soil and all, into the stainless steel sink. 

“Stay there for now and think about what you've done,” she sneered and returned to her living room. Something asinine involving roommates bickering was on. She let it be and collapsed into her chair, kicking her heels onto the table. 

Her flat made her feel uneasy, like sandpaper on her skin. The atmosphere choked at her and led to disquieting thoughts. Crowley was the type of demon interested in causing disruption and disturbance or tugging political threads to create tangled chaos. A demon who used a comfortable presentation for their corporation and seductive words on the tongue for temptation.

Not killing. Not savoring pain. But yet, she'd destroyed Ligur here out of desperation. 

She swung her legs down and hopped to her feet, waving a hand at the television to swap to a music station.

Crowley was not content in her skin and couldn't settle. She paced the length of her space and paused in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She still felt somewhat feminine and miracled her hair short and feisty and her clothes to a delicate vintage gothic gown that fit snug without needing to bother presenting with breasts.

It was a little better. 

She never understood how Aziraphale could be so comfortable remaining as he was century after century, but Crowley grew to crave it, savored it. He was always identifiable, the same shining, fluffy curls and antiquated but immaculate fashion, always a radiant sun drawing her to orbit until she burned in the best way. 

Her bright, beautiful star of an Angel. And Heaven had expected his penance by self-sacrifice in hellfire.

Crowley flopped back onto her bed and lounged among the abundant pillows. Her disguised visit to Heaven had helped her make peace with her Fall. Why would she miss being part of hate cloaked as efficiency? How could you put all your faith into some unknowable thing? How could Aziraphale still believe so confidently in the Ineffable Plan after everything, after denying all the angels of Heaven itself? It was mind-boggling to Crowley, but it was Aziraphale. Crowley believed in humanity and the Earth. She was optimistic that the universe would back her up. Maybe that was the same as believing in the Ineffable Plan. Maybe not. It was too blessed confusing. 

Whatever it was, she believed whole-heartedly they were on the same side, and that side countered both Heaven and Hell. She felt confident Aziraphale had begun to believe that too. But she accepted Aziraphale also felt newly outcast, adrift, and in search of direction. Well, if he was lost, Crowley would be his shepherd. 

“Ugh. Too biblical and too wrong,” she said into the room and flipped over to sprawl over the comforter on her belly, arms wrapped around one of the firmer pillows. 

She thought about him today at lunch, visibly biting back questions on what was next, where he belonged. At how he appeared gloriously impeccable but eyes blown wide and lips parted at her deliberate touches. At how his eyelashes fluttered at the thought of flight.

Crowley would be his GPS? His compass? She closed her eyes and snuggled into the blankets, fully secure in at least one thing. 

She'd be his. Ferociously his.

~~~~ 

They set out two days later toward Tadfield. Against her instincts, Crowley kept the Bentley at sedate pace if only because Aziraphale seemed rather animated and excited today. A little extra time on the road with him soothed some of her unease. 

Aziraphale packed two of his precious books of prophecy along for the ride to show Anathema. “Because we kept hers for so long without asking,” he attempted to explain as they entered a less congested area. 

“There's no 'we' on that one, angel,” Crowley said. “And I know you will absolutely not lend those to book girl.”

“I don't see why not-”

“Oh no,” Crowley said, certain and a little playfully. “She'll be lucky enough to crack a spine without you hovering, let alone leave one there with her, for possibly weeeksssss,” she said, grinning shark-like. 

Maybe I'm doing things differently these days,” Aziraphale said, hesitant, and then he nodded once. “We need to invest in individual humans again rather than humanity as an abstract. You keep reminding me everything's changed, maybe the new Aziraphale lends his book to a fellow human academic.”

“There's a lot I'd like to see from the 'new' Aziraphale,” Crowley said low and shot a sideways glance to watch him blush in a satisfying way. Aziraphale started wringing his hands and darted a quick look over at Crowley before his eyes fixed back on road straight ahead. 

Crowley returned her attention back at road and flipped the radio station, smug. “I am ninety-nine percent sure lending books is not going to be one of those things. Especially your very old prophecy books?” 

“In depth study of prophecy has gone out of fashion recently,”he mourned. “All I have are vintage books.” 

“Never mind that divination is a grave sin. How many of those sinful old books do you own?” she teased.

“Oh you hush,” Aziraphale said while shifting the books on his lap. 

“Naaaaah, There's still prophets spewing out there. It's just elsewhere,” she consoled. “digital.” She tapped her hands on the steering wheel for a moment and then sped up when she recognized signs they were drawing near Lower Tadfield. 

“I don't know if I'll ever be 'digital',” he sighed. “And what I have seen are charlatans. Nothing near Nostradamus or Agnes Nutter.” 

“What about the rat, over in America, that's a prophet. Tells the humans about the weather or some rot?”

Aziraphale huffed a mildly irritated sound but failed to hide a slight smile. “Don't be ridiculous, that's a groundhog, Crowley, and it's only once a year. And it's not a prognosticator! It's too limited.” 

“And let's not forget what the humans have done with the stars,” Crowley said a little proudly because in spite of what had transpired with her Fall, she still felt satisfaction over having a hand in their creation. She vaguely wondered if it was something she'd even shared with Aziraphale before.

“I'm not so sure on astrology. I once read through all of Marcus Manilius's _Astronomica _and it was difficult to procure an original because --” He cut himself off and said, 'oh' very quietly and placed a hand where his heart would be. “It still feels extraordinarily like love here, abundant love.” His smile was blinding and soft. 

Crowley just grunted. She couldn't feel that, but she definitely could feel a sense of guardedness and a low throb of angry protectiveness she hadn't before as soon as they entered the general area.

“Stop at the carriage house I rented first or find the antichrist?” she asked. 

“Not sure, although perhaps we shouldn't keep calling him Antichrist? We could check on him first and – wait, was that Sargent Shadwell in the garden of that cottage?”

Crowley swung the Bentley around in a u-turn that never should have been possible in the space available. Aziraphale scrabbled at whatever part of the car he could to hang on and shouted, “Blast it, Crowley, was that necessary?” 

It _ was _ Shadwell, they saw upon arrival, with the younger Witchfinder from the airfield and one of the brave children that'd faced the horsemen. Madame Tracy hovered nearby. Investigating further, they saw two of the other children with Adam Young closer to the cottage entrance holding various gardening tools. Anathema appeared to be giving instruction to the kids. Most of them looked up when Crowley pulled the Bentley up near the front gate. 

They hopped out of the car, entirely too eagerly on Aziraphale's part, Crowley thought since he ended up leaving the books. Dog barked and bounded over to meet them at the gate. 

“Outta my way, Hellhound,” Crowley snarled back at the dog. 

“Dog, let them in!” Adam called and dropped the rake he held to walk over. Anathema appeared to hesitate, and he added, “I thought I made sure everyone remembered them from b'fore? Not everybody, jus' us all?”

“Oh, I do remember. A little?” She approached with Pepper trailing. “The details are a little foggy,” she said, apologetic. 

“I remember,” Pepper added. “I haven't decided if I like you two yet. But if Adam trusts you--” she stopped there and glared at both Aziraphale and Crowley cautiously in a way Crowley approved. 

“My dears, don't trouble yourselves,” Aziraphale said, chuckling. “Such a large concentration of occult and ethereal energies is difficult for the human mind to comprehend, and it just burbbles right out!” 

“I do recall you had my book though,” she said pointedly. 

“Well, yes, of course, I'd meant to...but it was the only copy I'd ever seen...and whereabouts of the antichrist...and then, of course, the accidental discorportation...” he stammered and pulled on his waistcoat. 

Crowley smiled thinly as she watched him babble to an increasingly confused Anathema and fumbled for Aziraphale's forearm to stifle his anxious chattering. “You have it back now, right? We're good here?” she said, grinning over her clenched teeth. 

Madame Tracy and Sargent Shadwell had drifted over by then, with Brian and Newt hanging back to watch curiously with Wensleydale.

“We have an unexpected little reunion,” Madame Tracy said and clapped her hands together once. “How lovely!” She walked right up and patted Aziraphale on the shoulder in a motherly fashion, which caused his nervous smile to shift to a genuine one of greeting. It made Crowley feel like she needed to keep her hand fixed on his forearm.

”The demons!,” Shadwell barked. He stepped forward a bit to place Madame Tracy, Pepper, and Anathema behind him. Pepper huffed as only a preteen could and stomped back to the others. “Now donna ye be possessin' anyone today, ye spawns o' satan!” He shook his index finger in the air at them as if scolding a naughty dog. “I'm recrutin' an' trainin' the next generation o' Witchfinders I kin send against demons ye know.” He narrowed his eyes at Crowley and scanned her dress and kitten heels. “Are ye or are ye no' the demon from b'fore, ye look like 'im?”

_ Demonssss? _ Crowley mouthed over at Aziraphale curiously, completely ignoring Shadwell, but Aziraphale only rolled his eyes back in response. Anathema had stepped out from behind Shadwell and watched them with a bemused expression. 

Shadwell lowered his hand and peered at them, considering. “Unless yere both wantin' to keep supportin' the Witchfinder Army wi' a bit of fundin'? I's costly te bring down evil!” 

Crowley released her hold on Aziraphale's arm and met his eyes for several beats, slightly confused. She'd been funding Shadwell, but she hadn't known Aziraphale was as well. She slanted her eyes at Shadwell, reluctantly impressed at his shadiness. 

“Mr. S, you old silly,” Madame Tracy intervened. “Leave them be, Mr. Aziraphale was a perfect gentleman. And it's no time to be discussing business.” She took hold of his arm and began guiding him back to Brian and Newt, who were both standing nervously near the peonies. “Go finish your army drills, and we'll all have tea, there's a love.” 

It left Crowley, Aziraphale, and Anathema staring at each other awkwardly, which did not help Crowley's jitters at being around these particular humans so soon after the events at the airfield. 

Anathema shook off the uncomfortableness first, her natural propriety seeming to take over. “Please, you're free to join us if you don't mind all the mess. I bought Jasmine cottage. I decided to stay here,” she said and turned her head toward Newt's direction across the garden with an affectionate tilt to her lips. “And today I have a few helpers paid in sweets to whip it into shape.” 

“Oh how lovely!” Aziraphale said, his kind smile finally reaching his eyes. “I was so hoping you'd stay so we could have a chat!” 

“Yes, lovely,” Crowley said flatly. “I'm gonna talk to the kid, angel."

Aziraphale just tsked at her and followed Anathema to a patio table strewn with various snacks and drinks. 

Crowley cracked her neck and stretched her arms to dislodge the tightness that accompanied her stress before casually walking to the three of the Them who'd gone back to garden work. This much close interaction with humans unnerved her. Attachments to beings with such short life-spans only brought pain from Crowley's experience, but if this is what Aziraphale wanted, she reasoned she could blame him for any sort of _weakness_ she might develop for them. 

The kids were having an argumentative discussion about Brian. Their 'work' resembled more like 'playing with Dog'. Crowley approved of their creative shirking of responsibility while still reaping the rewards. 

“I think 's a good idea,” Adam was saying.

“But we're _us_,” Wensley said, kicking a pile of weeds they'd pulled earlier. “If Brian trains with them, he's not with us!” 

“We are us,” Adam insisted. “But all the good teams gotta have diff'ent players, diff'ent stuff they do.” 

“He _was_ ready to clobber you with a bat when you were acting all scary like a bad friend.” reminded Pepper. She tossed aside a small spade she hadn't actually used. “What should I do for the team?”

Crowley sauntered up closer to the kids, her hands hooked partially into the pockets she'd miracled onto her dress. “You faced War with Aziraphale's flaming sword, child,” she reminded. “You can be whatever you want.” 

Adam, who'd been sitting in the grass to rub Dog's belly, jumped back to his feet. “I knew you'd be back. Something's messed up feeling at the airfield an' I wanted someone like me to feel it.” 

“Did you put the idea into his head?” Crowley asked suspiciously and aggressively protective. She pointed with her chin to where Aziraphale appeared to be comfortably talking with Anathema and Madame Tracy. 

“No. Don't hafta. Things still just happen when I think of it. Small things now, not big things.” Crowley continued to stare him down. “I won't go messin' around in an angel's head. That angel anyway!” Adam planted his fists at his hips. “I like him, ev'n though I know he was gonna shoot me,” he declared. It had some intangible weight to it, and Crowley felt a shiver throughout her body and her wings in interdimentional space. “Means he was willin' ta stop s'mthin' bad. He's on my team.”

Wensley was squinting his eyes at Crowley in thought. 

“Is there a problem, kid?” she said. She hadn't expected human eleven year olds to put her so off-balance, but it piqued her interest. 

“What are you?” he said. 

Pepper smacked his arm. “You don't ask people that.” 

“I'm one of Adam's godfathers, I helped deliver him,” which would be news to Adam, Crowley realized. “What are you?”

“Godfather?” Adam repeated as Wensley seemed to scan Crowley's entire demonic presence and current androgynous leaning toward stereotypical female presentation with confusion and then shrugged his shoulders. “Like a guardian Angel?”

“Guardian Demon,” Crowley corrected and smirked when Wensley stepped back. 

“I always thought there were no such things, and the angel and demon dichotomy was invented by mankind wanting excuses for their behavior,” Pepper said. “Maybe I need to become our gang's historian so we don't look like fools,” she added and folded her arms across her chest as if in defense. 

“I don't know what I am yet.” Wensley said, a little distressed. “ Brian'll be the Witchfinder, even though the only occultist and witch we know is really nice. Adam's the one who makes the best plans. Pepper and I,” he fiddled with his glasses and glanced back at Crowley, “I don't know what we'll need for our save-the-world gang, but we'll figure it out.” 

Adam snapped his fingers for Dog and said, “You two, will you finish helping Anathema? We promised her. I need to talk to my _godfather_,” he looked to Crowley while saying that last word. Crowley angled her head to watch him and followed a few steps. 

“Didn't know you saw me as a baby," he said. "Mighta mentioned it. But 's real good you're here. I don't wanna worry them, but the American airfield don't feel right. Hasn't since that whole thing happened.”

“And you want me to check?” Crowley clarified. It would be bad news if there were some sort of residue or energy build-up remaining, and if the antichrist could feel it? Enough that he felt he needed to build a team-Antichrist? Not good. She wondered if Hell or Heaven were making appearances in spite of Adam's warnings. 

“They'll come with me if I ask.” Adam looked back over at his friends who'd returned to garden work and over to his friend that was ringing a bell currently by Shadwell and Newt. “I was mean to them. Before. Like a monster,” he said. 

“You don't act like a monster,” said Crowley. She wobbled a little on her heels and cursed inwardly. Why in the Heaven did these humans always feel like unburdening on her instead of seeking comfort from somebody like Aziraphale? “I've seen monsters. You're not one. You're a kid. Kids do dumb stuff.” 

“Well. I hafta protect them. So they can't come with me unless it's safe. They're mine and they can do brave stuff and really dumb stuff. But I still can't let them go near stuff that might hurt them cuz I already did the one time. Do you understand?” 

Crowley massaged the bridge of her nose beneath the mid-piece of her sunglasses. “Yeah, I get it.” She looked over at the kids and then at Aziraphale. “Go get in the car,” she said and then wrinkled her nose when Adam turned and called the Hellhound to join him. 

She walked up behind Aziraphale's chair and dropped her hand on the back of his neck. He startled and then turned to look up at her. “Going up to the airfield with the boy,” she said. “Something might be up, not sure.” 

“Oh dear,” Madame Tracy said, shaking her head. “I thought all that business was over. Perhaps Mr. S has the right of it after all?”

Anathema nodded and put down the lemonade she'd just sipped. “Adam did say that it felt strange. I tried to study it, but I wasn't getting much.” 

“I see,” Aziraphale said. He started standing up, saying, “Excuse me, ladies,” and Crowley experienced a shaky, apprehensive feeling of dread engulf her entire being. Adam's 'can't let them go near stuff that might hurt them' indeed. 

She gently pushed back down on his neck and he sat again, meeting Crowley's shaded eyes with a puzzled expression. “Hey, I'll handle it,” she said softly. “Stay, you wanted to talk with book girl here, I won't be long.” She slid her palm over his shoulder and gave an apologetic squeeze to his elbow before releasing. She surreptitiously miracled a sheet of paper into her hand. “Here's the rental info, I'll meet you back there.” 

“If you're sure?” Aziraphale took the page from her and tapped the paper edge onto the table. 

“You might want to snag those books you were _going to lend her_,” she reminded a little wickedly. 

“Oh tish tosh,” he grumbled but stood up and headed toward the Bentley. 

“Good of you two to check on Adam,” Anathema said. “He's one of the reasons I decided to stay, too much of an uncertainty.” 

Crowley reared back at 'good' slightly and waved off her concern. “He fusses too much. Never would hear the end of it.” She checked over to where Aziraphale was still retrieving the books from the car. 

“And I don't think this is over, either. The antichrist is going to grow in power. Can't help it,” she said, mildly surprised she'd shared with the humans. “And Heaven and Hell are not going to give up on their blessed war.”

“Or their retribution.” Anathema cocked her head and studied Crowley, then gestured with her chin toward Aziraphale. He was petting Dog through the window of the Bentley, much to Crowley's displeasure. “What does the angel think?”

“I don't know,” she shared, a little too honestly. She examined Anathema and Tracy from behind security of her sunglasses. It felt uncomfortable and strange to discuss Aziraphale with humans. It'd been centuries, in fact, and never about such grand concerns. Brave new world and all that, got to embrace it. “He's a fucking mess right now,” she finally admitted.

Madame Tracy began fussing with some of the glassware on the table. Crowley noticed her also watching Aziraphale. “Now of course, I don't know him as well as you, love,” Tracy said, tilting her head in thought, “but the dear does seem a little off. We had quite the conversations while he was rattling around up there.” She gestured around her head. “Poor thing worries so much, worries about you non-stop, you know,” she added, chiding. 

Crowley felt a little flustered and took a few steps back. She glanced back to check Aziraphale and realized he was ambling his way back, books held to his chest and a pleased smile upon his face. The sight soothed some of churning in Crowley's mind. She turned back toward the two women still seated at the table. 

“I'll talk to him, poke around,” Anathema said before Aziraphale reached them.

“And I'm meeting up with him for lunch in London next week,” Madame Tracy added. 

Crowley narrowed her eyes in discomfort at the humans without attempting to intimidate. She hated networking, but damned did it make her feel more secure in leaving Aziraphale's side. “Good,” she finally said, just as Aziraphale reached the table to carefully place his books on the only free surface. 

“Now wait until you see these!” he said brightly, completely oblivious to the mood. He bit his lip and turned to Crowley, smile dimming somewhat. “Dearest. The dog hair,” he began tentatively. 

“Argh, damned Hellhound!”she spit and spun to strut off to the car, stalled, and then turned back to Aziraphale. She reached and cocked her sunglasses enough to meet Aziraphale's eyes uninhibited. “You're all right here?” she verified. 

“I think I'm the one meant to be concerned here, my dear,” he said. His eyes flicked upward to Heaven and then downward before meeting hers again quite intensely. “I trust little Adam there more than...others,” he trailed off. “Don't be too long.” 

“Won't,” she said, continuing to meet his gaze for several moments until Dog's barking and Adam's “Come on!” broke in. 

The corner of Aziraphale's lip quirked upward. “I'm confident you can miracle away pet hair from the seats?” he teased. 

Crowley only growled and stalked off to the Bentley.

~~~ 

The land surrounding the airfield felt exactly as Adam said- wrong. Crowley paced along the fence straining her senses. She trailed her fingers over the chainlink and tilted her head. Something...she'd have to go in. The military humans hadn't noticed them arrive, and she was unsure if it was Adam's doing or her own belief they wouldn't notice. She hoped it held. 

Adam crouched down and scratched Dog's ears. “See what I mean? 'S gummy or somethin'. Itchy. I don't like it.” 

“Keep out of sight and stay out here,” Crowley said, preparing herself to shift to snake. 

“Why?” Adam said. He looked up at Crowley and then through the fence. “I didn't have ta tell you. It's not right, sitting me out here.” He rubbed his cheek against Dog's head and mumbled into the fur, “It's my problem, my home, I shoulda got rid of it.”

“I don't know what'sss in here. I don't like it,” she said, looking back down at Adam. “You know how you didn't want your friends here so they wouldn't get hurt? Same reason you're not coming with.” She pulled off her sunglasses and handed them over to Adam with a quiet, “hang on to these.”

She shook out her arms a bit and transformed. Adam jumped back a bit and Dog barked. 

“That's wicked!” he said, shakily. “But it's no' fair. You shouldn't be by yourself either,” he said stubbornly. 

“Ssssstay here,” she hissed. “I jusssst need to check ssssomething.” She slithered along the ground, barely fitting through a gap between two chainlinks. The surface felt unnaturally warm for an English late-summer. She felt drawn to a particular area downfield near old airplane hangars. The air base seemed relatively empty but for a few soldiers she easily avoided. Eventually, she sensed an anomaly and stopped to coil up and concentrate nearby one of the buildings. 

It was exactly that moment when lightning flashed without accompanying thunder and struck the nearby ground. She reared back and hissed involuntarily at the static injected into the air, and she darted her tongue scenting the burnt ozone. The surroundings blazed and settled. The Archangel Gabriel stood before her, looming over Crowley's snake form, wings tucked into inter-dimensional space. Gabriel suddenly bent and grabbed Crowley behind the head, jerking her upwards so her body-length dangled. He slid his other hand down over her belly in an attempt to secure her. Crowley immediately shifted back to her current human form and stumbled away so her back faced the hangar. The lingering pressure from his fingers felt repulsive. 

“That wassss rude!” she snarled.

Gabriel chuckled and folded his arms across his chest. “Crowley the demon. Visiting the fields of your betrayal?” he said callously. His corporation emitted a diffused blue aura of light. He took two steps closer. “This ground burns,” he added. “Does a demon feel it too? Oh wait,” he said, grinning smugly, “you're a different kind of demon.”

He circled closer to Crowley's side and rested his chin within his index finger and thumb in parody of a man deep in thought. “Hmmmmm. Michael was quite stunned when they reported your your dip in holy water.” 

Crowley kept still but visibly relaxed her body, propping herself casually against the hangar and forcing her stiffness to melt. She wrinkled her nose and smirked, vicious. She beat down her anxiousness over her lack of sunglasses to hide behind and widened her snake-eyes as an advantage. “Are the mighty Archangels a little puzzled at being left out of the Lord's Great Ineffable Plan?” she drawled out the end of her words and glared hard at Gabriel. 

Gabriel stiffened and clenched his hands noticeably into fists. “I deny your charade had anything to do with Her Great Plan. Why would She leave a fated war in the hands of a demon, a nearly Fallen angel, and a disobedient little brat? ” He bounced on his feet a little in emphasis. 

Well, gosh,” Crowley said, fluttering her eyes and lifting her fingertips to her lips as if scandalized. “that sounds a bit blasphemous, my word!” She dropped the performance and grinned maliciously.

“You've only deferred the war, you know. You and a traitorous angel. Heaven and Hell will meet. You can already feel it, can't you? The soil here is seething with demonic corruption. Much of the Earth feels this way. It needs sanctifying.”

Crowley felt a flush of discouragement. “And you're happy to burn off everyone in the way to get there,” she said. 

“Humanity rebuilds if She decrees,” he said imperiously. “Oh, and your little boyfriend?” Gabriel smiled tightly. “Strange. An angel surviving hellfire? I shouldn't be surprised at how low he's sunken. Aziraphale was designed a flawed, gluttonous self-indulgent aberration.”

Crowley perked up, suddenly seeing the opening she could slither in. She summoned a low smoldering intensity and eased forward provocatively, black gown swaying, confident now. Her lips involuntarily curled lightly when Gabriel actually took a step back. “Now. That _iss_ blasphemoussss, Gabriel,” she hissed softly. “I'm surprised!”

She cocked her head and leaned forward slightly like a snake ready to strike. “Aziraphale was breathed into life by Her own hands,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “Are you suggesting She's made a mistake? That She's flawed?” she added in mock disbelief. 

Gabriel's cruel smile dropped from his lips and he froze. “He. _Will_. Fall,” he snapped as he regained composure. 

“But only by Her desire.” Crowley stepped back and reclined against the air hanger again, stretching her long legs out and anchoring her elbows against the wall to disguise her trembling. “Is that why you tried to slaughter him?” She pretended to be deep in thought for a moment and added, “Oh. You were indulging in some anger! Angel on earth, getting up to all sorts of trouble without Falling? Invokes a little of your Wrath, maybe a touch of Envy? That's a sin, that is, Gabriel. You're on the way to keeping company with us demons.”

Gabriel drew his arms near his chest and began crackling with a bright, cold brilliance. The air began to smell strongly of ozone. “Serpent,” he began. 

Crowley stiffened, lost her poise and searched desperately for an escape route. “Ackggh!” she spluttered and began to scramble to the side. “As lovely as an afternoon smiting might be-” she began shakily.

“NO.” 

The aura surrounding Gabriel swiftly withdrew. Crowley felt an uncomfortable invisible pressure holding her into place. Gabriel spun, and Crowley materialized another pair of sunglasses to jam back on her face to see Adam standing firm behind Gabriel, his eyes red. Dog sat in front protectively, ears back and eyes darkened, growling. It was not a time to forget the boy was still the Antichrist in spite of his floppy hair and untied sneakers. 

“I tol' you last time, stop messing people around.” He kicked a rock and pointed at Gabriel. “I don't wan' none of this here. None of this zappin' of people 'cuz ya seem to be thinkin' you got the right side.” He glared, eyes burning. 

Gabriel accomplished some sort of feat where he sneered and grinned simultaneously. He scanned back and forth between Adam and Crowley, made to say something and then pressed his lips in a hard line before disappearing. 

“Bye, send a postcard,” Crowley said, her voice wavering from nerves. She shuddered a bit and then smiled widely and falsely at Adam. “So that went over well,” she said. 

“You're an idiot,” Adam accused. Dog trotted over next to where Crowley stood and peed against the hangar. 

Crowley huffed but didn't reply. She cocked her head and slowly nodded in defeat. 

“I know you're the only two of your kind helpin' us keep stoppin' their dumb plans.” He grabbed at Crowley's hand, surprising her. “You're not s'posed to do big stuff by yourself. You, me, Miss Anathema, Newt, your angel guy, Brian, Pepper, Wensleydale, your're all my team now and we gotta work together before they all come back.” He stared at the ground and added, “ And s'mtimes you gotta check things out first 'fore you bring the rest of the team so they don't get hurt. Right? But not alone.”

“I ssssupose,” Crowley said, feeling a little bludgeoned. 

“Now come on, ma'am,” Adam said. “It's hard work to stop the Americans from seein' us.” He yanked gently on Crowley's hand until she followed. “You kin take a look at how we rebuilt Atlantis by the quarry.” 

Crowley had delivered the Antichrist as ordered and then spent years with Aziraphale shaping a completely different child due to mistaken identity. She loathed to admit how that particular child had hooked a claw into her concern. Here stood another child, the very human antichrist, who had bravely stood in front of Satan himself, and yet Adam was still a fledgeling in his vast possibilities. He also looked like every regular scruffy eleven year old boy. She appraised Adam consideringly and finally nodded. “Lay on, MacDuff”.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun writing this whole story and am enjoying really fine tuning as I go from longhand to type to beta edits. Thank you for stopping by to read it! I had to split a chapter further on so now we're looking at 5.


	3. Chapter 3

chapter 3

~~~

Aziraphale lingered, watching Crowley pull away from Jasmine cottage to head to the airfield. He hoped it was a false alarm, but now that he was beginning to know Adam as something more than a vague Antichrist, he didn't have much faith in it. He looked down at the grass somewhat despondent. Faith was such a loaded concept these days for him. 

“It's getting on,” he heard Madame Tracy say, and he looked up to see her packing up her belongings. The patio table still held remnants of their lunch, and Aziraphale's two books of prophecy were pushed to the edge, nearly ready to tumble to the grass. The sight unnerved him so he shoved them further inward. 

Anathema had her hands fisted on her hips and surveyed the heaped weeds and dead headed flowers strewn about the late summer vegetation. “Yeah, I suppose it's time to bring out the snacks I promised. They did a better job than I thought they would!” 

Madame Tracy hummed an agreement. “Lunch was lovely, dear. We won't be staying. Mr. S gets tetchy in the late afternoon.” 

“You're welcome to stop by. Newt seems to get a kick out of all of it, and he's been driving in a few nights a week and on the weekend. Would you call them over and ask them to wash up?” She turned to include Aziraphale. “If you could lend me a hand?”

Aziraphale startled from his thoughts. “Of course, dear girl.” He reflexively checked on the books and followed her into the cottage.

As they headed indoors, he heard Madame Tracy begin to shout, “Oi! Ladies and Gentleman, time to reel it in!” 

The cottage had the feel of not yet moved-in reflecting it's former temporary status as rental to newer as owned. It was quaint and had the potential for coziness. Aziraphale couldn't resist looking around as he trailed Anathema into the kitchen area. Some fixtures that spoke home were scattered throughout, a shelf of cherished photos, a table scattered with new age magazines. One wall still bore evidence of her labor in searching for Adam, and he made note in order to ask about it later. 

Newton Pulsifer's presence was also evident in the occasional t-shirt or paperwork scattered here and there. Aziraphale had always enjoyed sensing the freshness of affection and developing love within a new romantic entanglement in the humans around him. It felt present here, soaking into the brick and wood of the cottage with the promise of future. 

Anathema handed over a pitcher of lemonade for him to carry out and removed the tinfoil from a pan of fudge brownies. “Thank you,” she said while pulling a stack of plastic cups from a cabinet, “I'm sorry about the state, I sent for more of my things once I closed on the cottage. It all showed up yesterday.”

“Completely understandable,” he consoled. “You should see my bookshop at times.”

I need to ask.” She paused and turned toward him, brownie pan in hand. He offered a smile he hoped came off as encouraging. “What I should be calling you?”

“Aziraphale is fine, my bookstore is listed under A. Z. Fell, some in the neighborhood know me as Azira. It does seem to make humans more comfortable.” 

“I don't need a short-cut. Aziraphale is fine; it's your name. Names mean things. I'm called Anathema, after all.” She led him back outdoors, and he bobbled the cups and pitcher more securely before following.

“Crowley's changed theirs over the years and tried different things. I've always just been Aziraphale. I did find it necessary to develop a last name as time went on to blend in because it became such a bother.”

He tilted his head at her, studying her kind face as they approached the outdoor table. She was lovely and less wound-up than their last two encounters. Her eyes held wisdom much too advanced for her age. He experienced some sorrow at what her life must have been like so far as a descendant of Agnes Nutter. He suddenly realized he'd been thinking of her the same way, as an abstract object to question and a means to an end on a quest for knowledge rather than an individual human soul. He wondered how often he'd failed other human uniqueness throughout his time on Earth in this regard. 

They unloaded the brownies and lemonade onto the table much to the excitement of Brian, Pepper, and Wensleydale, who'd gathered there eagerly awaiting their promised treat. 

“You made brownies!” Brain cheered and reached in for the first piece. 

Pepper glared at him and blocked his hand. “And you didn't wash your hands yet, that's gross.”

He grumbled but scampered off to the basin Anathema had placed by the garden hose. 

Aziraphale went ahead to prep several glasses of the lemonade before helping himself to his own. 

“How long have you been on Earth with humans?” Anathema asked as she offered a plate to Madame Tracy. “Agnes mentioned an angel in a handful of her prophecies, I wasn't sure what to expect.”

“Since the beginning.” He met her inquisitive gaze and added, “I was assigned to guard the Eastern Gate of Eden, if you can appreciate the time frame.” 

“You've seen a lot,” she acknowledged, studying him from across the table. 

“That is an astute observation, my dear.” He looked down and lightly chuckled when Wensleydale nudged his elbow in a request for more lemonade due to his mouth too fully stuffed with brownie to politely speak. 

Sargent Shadwell and Newt finally ambled over from the opposite side of the cottage. Newt stepped over and brushed a kiss on Anathema's cheek before reliving her of a plate of newly sliced brownie. 

“All trained up?” She asked, tone full of humor.

He ducked his head with a shy smile on his lips. “As much as one can be a Witchfinder these days?” He reached over and nudged her glasses up by the bridge. “I've already found the best of them on the first try.” 

Aziraphale watched them interact, immediately charmed. 

Shadwell grabbed a brownie off the table and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. He patted Brian's head with pride. Brian grinned through chocolate coated teeth. “Aye, Private Pulsifer, this laddie'll be a fine start to the Junior Witchfinder Brigade!” he said through his mouthful while chewing.

He saluted Brian, who scrambled to return it. “Ye keep up yer trainin' now, ye hear? I'll be checkin' on ye.”

Madame Tracy placed her plate on the table and started adjusting the lapels and pins attached to Shadwell's coat. “Wasn't that nice of Anathema to invite us over? Maybe you should thank her?” she advised. 

“Yech. Oh fine, ye naggin' strumpet,” he said fondly. He turned to Anathema and stood before her reminiscent of a schoolboy in spite of his age. “Was nice o' ye. Lendin' space 'n feedin' us 'n this,” he gestured over the table. He stepped forward and his expression shifted to a warning glare. 

But I had a stern talkin' to with my man 'ere,” he pointed over at Newt, who cringed. “Ye catless two-nippled witch, if one toe's outta line...” 

“Sargent Shadwell, we talked about this,” Newt reminded. 

“Yeah, yeah yeah. All this c'laboratin', it's a young lad's game these days.” He looked back over at Anathema. “But he says ye help with the readin' and the cuttin'.” He spun round so his coat flapped to point at Aziraphale. “And you. Demon!”

Aziraphale had been quietly watching as he nibbled his brownie and stepped back at Shadwell's accusation, frustrated. “This misunderstanding has gone on-”

Shadwell brandished his index finger with great drama. “Ah Ah. This great destroyer o' beasties ken send ye away once more ye great southern pansy! I'm on to ye!”

“Oh for goodness sake,” Aziraphale said and rolled his eyes, catching Anathema's amused glance as she covered her laugh with her fingers. 

Madame Tracy intervened by drawing Shadwell to her side. “We'll be heading off now,” She said to Anathema and Newton, then to Aziraphale she added, “We're still on for Tuesday?”

“Please, and phone my shop if you need directions,” he called out as they turned to leave. 

Shadwell looked back at him and mouthed, _ watching!_ as he used the hand not bundled up by Tracy to point with his index and middle finger between Aziraphale and back to his own eyes several times. 

“Sorry. He's a lot to take,” Newt said. “But he's sincere in wanting to help.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, I certainly hope so.” He returned to his seat and helped himself to one last brownie. 

Anathema laughed and passed the remaining treats to the kids. They seemed to be enjoying themselves and sat in the patio chairs, mostly tuning out the adult conversation in favor of their own intense discussion of all things concerning eleven year olds. “He doesn't bother me,” she said as she began cleaning up. “He's like a cartoon. A grouchy, out-of-touch cartoon.” 

Aziraphale didn't comment and enjoyed the chocolate melting on his tongue, silently watching the humans around him. It'd been a very long time, more than a century in fact, since he'd allowed himself to become involved with individual mortals. It was easier to remain detached, the principality loving Her creation from afar, enjoying their inventions and discoveries. It was a very curious feeling, this desire to spread his wings and shelter the odd little collection of humans thrown together by the coming of the Antichrist.

Almost like it was Planned to happen. Aziraphale shivered. 

“Did you save one for Adam?” Pepper was asking Anathema when he brought his attention back to the present.

“I did,” Anathema answered. She had placed an arm around Newt's waist and was surveying the kids' gardening work with some pride. 

Brian burped loudly and pushed back from the table. “I was a bit hungry after all that trainin' to fight evil.”

“What did you do anyhow?” Wensleydale asked. 

“I was hopin' there'd be some sword fightin'. But really we talked about how to spot evil and how to fight it.” He jumped up from his seat and added, “You should join too! We can have a whole Tadfield group of junior witchfinders!” 

“Adam says they're all going to come back. We need to be ready. He says he knows it, and it's jus' a matter of when.”

Aziraphale focused more attentively on the children's conversation at that. Anathema seemed to do the same, saying “Really?” almost to herself. 

Pepper was nodding in agreement with Wensleydale. “If they think they can have their stupid war on our home, they'll be in for a surprise.” 

“If you're not gonna be witchfinders, whatd'ya think you'll do?” Brain asked. 

“Don't know. _I_ don't want to be a witchfinder,” Pepper said and cringed. “Sargent Shadwell is disgusting.” 

“Hey!”

“He is, and Adam wants us to build a team with different skills.”

“Like a team of superheros!” Brian said while posing reminiscent of Superman. “That fight evil an' witches and demons, the bad ones not the good ones,” he added with a glance between Anathema and Aziraphale.

Pepper turned to stare at Aziraphale long enough for him to feel disconcerted. “Why does Sargent Shadwell keep calling you a demon anyway? Are you a demon? You don't look like one.” 

“Witchfinder Sargent Shadwell is mistaken and will not see to reason!” 

“The _real_ demon said we used your flaming sword. Are you a soldier?” she accused. “You don't look like one of those either.” 

He sighed and regarded the three children plus Newt and Anathema who were now all listening with curiosity. “A very long time ago, I was made to be a soldier for a Heavenly War. I'm a bookseller now. That's all,” he said, quieter. “ And I'm an angel meant to encourage happiness and love and kindness. At least I still try to do so.” 

Newt leaned both palms on the table and said bluntly, “If that one gent at the airbase was an angel, he wasn't very kind and loving, wanting to start a war.” 

Pepper, Brian, and Wensley all made noises of agreement. “Adam says they're regrouping to come back,” Brian said. “You might hafta be soldier again.”

“I don't want to!” Aziraphale insisted. He tried to disguise his apprehension but wasn't successful based upon how the humans were looking at him. Birdsong echoed in his ears, and he felt a little too warm in the late afternoon sun that had melted away the morning's cloud cover. He idly watched how the light breeze fluttered leaves of a nearby lavender shrub. All this could have been destroyed. Could still_ be_ destroyed. He couldn't meet their scrutinizing expressions. “War makes anyone capable of appalling things, frankly, and I want no part of that!” He tensed up and focused on the condensation beading up and slipping down the curve of the glass lemonade pitcher. 

Anathema looked at him sharply but remained quiet. 

“What's this?” Wensleydale asked after several minutes of a strained silence. Aziraphale turned to see the boy flipping through one of the books of prophecy. He actively forced himself not to snatch it back from the child's hands. 

“Ah, Careful!” he warned. “Just place it back down there, that's a good boy.” 

Wensleydale closed the book but kept his hands on it and tilted his head curiously at him.

Aziraphale realized they were all watching him again and he tried to relax. The humans were curious. It was understandable but very disconcerting to see the young boy touch something so important to him. They were all peering at him with a friendly interest though and not cruelly scoffing like the other angels might. It was so different than what he'd been experiencing he felt obligated to make peace.

“Those books are very old,”he said much more gently, softening his words with a smile. “So one needs to be particularly careful in how you handle them.” 

“Oh!” Wensley lightened his touch and nodded. 

“And I appreciate that you brought them for me,” Anathema said, careful to reassure. “I'll take great care of them.” 

“Well, they're not my best editions, of course,” Aziraphale found himself babbling, “but one is Nostradamus, whom I'm sure you've heard of,” he said to the children, “and the other is a signed copy of the prophetic works of Ursula Southeil, more recognized as Mother Shipton.” 

“I bet they're all full of it,” Brain grumbled. “Most those are junk, right?” 

“It's their historic value, my dear little ones,” he said. “Only Agnes Nutter was capable of completely accurate predictions.” He looked over kindly at Anathema. 

“I still want to read them,” Wensley said. “I bet Adam will too. He likes all that rubbish.” 

“I-” Aziraphale stopped and looked at the group that were slowly endearing themselves to him. 

This changing new world was relentless in pushing Aziraphale from his comfort zones. He turned to Anathema, who had gathered the two books off the table. They were just books, he tried to convince himself. These were people, much more important. 

“If you don't mind monitoring them,” he began with a pleading glance at Anathema. 

“I'll make sure they're safe with Adam's friends.” she said. “And on that note, kids, thank you for all your work! I promised I wouldn't keep you all day,” she added. 

Brain, Wensleydale, and Pepper all took their leave after thanking Newt and Anathema and even offering to clean up. Pepper paused near Aziraphale. “You're coming back to Tadfield again, right?” she asked.

“I will,” he assured. “Have to keep up with Adam, you know,” he said with a crisp nod.

“You have to,” she said, knowingly. “You're part of his team. You know he forgave you for trying to shoot him at the airbase while you were hanging 'round Madame Tracy's body. I don't know if you know that,” she added and then turned to gather her bicycle up. 

Aziraphale froze, mouth open but unable to speak his disbelief. The Antichrist had forgiven him. For attempted murder only diverted by Madame Tracy's intervention. He hadn't been granted forgiveness from Archangels of the Lord and yet the son of Satan had forgiven him. What a strange feeling.

“I'll clean up if you two need to talk,” Newt suggested. 

Anathema was watching him with an expression that made him feel pinned. “Let's take a walk,” she said and took him by the elbow, leading him slowly around the outdoor landscaping.

“I can see you're worried,” she began. “About the books, but maybe other things as well.”

“I'm sorry, I have never lent them to anyone before, it's a bit silly of me.” 

“I don't think it's silly. We all have our favorites.” They stepped around a haphazardly raked pile of yard waste. 

“On the drive here, Crowley implied I would 'chicken out' and I nearly have. I have an excellent collection of prophecy, you might come out the bookstore one day and see some of the others.”

“I promise to take care of the two you leave here. My family kept Agnes's book safe for hundreds of years. Until I left it in that antique car.”

Aziraphale flushed with shame and pulled his arm from her grip so he could turn to her. “And I truly apologize for not returning it immediately. You see, I'd been searching for a very long time. The situation was desperate, we had no idea where the true antichrist was, and Crowley and I disagreed-” His tongue tripped over the words; he was nearly ready to make more excuses to her. He exhaled, feeling heavy. 

“I was cruel. I kept throwing Heavenly righteousness in Crowley's face because I wouldn't trust my own intuition and still didn't let on I had the book. And I should have sought you out to work on it together. Crowley was terrified and wanted us to run off to leave the entire planet behind.” His laugh was there but feeble. “Please don't let on I told you that. There's a demonic image at stake here.”

They paused so she could gather some of the smaller gardening tools and gloves the kids had left behind. 

“Wait,”she said as she stood back up and turned to him with a questioning expression, “you went though Agnes's prophecies and found Adam in that short of time? It took our family years, and I spent my entire life studying.”

“I did, but my dear girl, please be kind to yourself, I've had thousands of years of studying prophecy, and I'm an angel. but then I was discorporated into Heaven- lost the body I was given- and that took time to sort out. You saw, Adam remade it, and good thing too because I don't know what will happen now.” He was quiet, lost in thought for a moment. “It's all very confusing.” 

Anathema tilted her head at him as they began walking back, her lips pressed in a firm line as she considered something. “The morning after what happened at the airbase, Agnes sent me another book,” she finally admitted. 

Aziraphale gasped and nearly tripped over his own feet. “What! Another book of prophecy? From Agnes Nutter? That would solve everything!” he said eagerly. “We could study that right now and create a plan, oh goodness, we must tell Crowley and Adam-”

“I burned it,” she bit out. 

“You did not!” His mouth dropped open in shock. His stomach clenched up and twisted with dismay and more than a little anger. “How could you...with what might happen...why in the Hell would you-” he forced his words back down and sucked in a sharp breath, somewhat aghast at his reaction. 

“Hey! Don't be an ass!” Anathema said sharply. They both stopped, and she frowned at his behavior. “It's my life. It's short, compared to yours. You might understand humans better than the other angels but there's a lot you don't, I'm starting to see. It was my decision.” 

“I...I acknowledge your point,” he said, his emotions completely frazzled. “But the world? How is humanity meant to stand against the joined forced of Heaven and Hell when you had the _answers right in your hand!_”

“Aziraphale,” she said and gestured toward the outdoor table to indicate he should head that way. “You're panicking.”

I'm not...panicking,” he said shrilly and absolutely lying. He stood by one of the wicker patio chairs but didn't sit. 

“I don't regret burning it. Even with all it's potential.” Anathema had dumped the gardening tools into a bucket and was now fidgeting with the cording of one her her necklaces. “Do you understand? My entire life has been a descendant of Agnes Nutter.” 

“I'm very sorry, my dear girl, that was abominable behavior on my part,” he said and splayed his palm over his heart, sincerely wishing he could flatten all the swirling emotions into nothingness. “I don't know what came over me.”

“I do. You're scared. We're in the same place. I made a choice allowing my freedom. No one is making my decisions for me any longer and it's terrifying! You made a choice too, and now you're just as afraid of the consequences as I am.” 

Aziraphale couldn't meet her eyes. He gazed off into the distance to try and consider her words and realized Newt was wandering back towards them with a puzzled look upon his face, washcloth in hand so he could wipe the table clean. 

“My family is disappointed,” Anathema continued, hesitant. “But without that book, without Agnes dictating my life, I'm nothing! And I want to be something. I need to learn who Anathema Device is without someone else writing the story.” 

Newt tossed the cloth on the table and turned to her. “You're not 'nothing.' What's all this about?”

“Oh, the big questions,” she said. “See, even an angel must look in the mirror and ask, 'who am I, why am I here'?"

“They meant to kill me,” Aziraphale said, attempting to not drown in the sorrow escaping with his words. “Did Crowley tell you that earlier today? And because of one last prophecy from Agnes, we prevented it. She saved our existence, essentially.”

“I'm glad she did,” Anathema offered.

“But it continues, unfortunately. I'm an angel that doesn't belong in Heaven and certainly not to Hell, but everyday I think, is this when I'll Fall? My conviction in celestial dogma is fractured and God knows you can't question it.” He touched the fingertips of both hands upon his temples. “I'm not supposed to have any doubts.”

“Is this about,” Newt began and then looked at Aziraphale shiftily to whisper, “Armageddon?”

Anathema fluffed one of the cushions tied to the wicker chair and sat. She pushed a nearby chair further back as an attempt to invite Aziraphale to sit, but he was much too anxious for it. “Aziraphale,” she said, “we were there just like you. I watched a group of very brave humans stand up to something dreadful and a very brave angel and demon stand up against their respective sides to divert an apocolyptic war.” 

“War didn't have to happen,” he whispered. “I attempted to convince them, but they were set; They were so eager for it so they could win!” 

“Do angels always do what their told?” Newt broke in. 

“Of course they should!” 

“Should, but do they?”

“I don't know?” He looked between Newt and Anathema, perplexed by his own words. “There are some things the Almighty and the other angels do I find upsetting, but our lot has always been not to question the Ineffable Plan.”

“Because you,” Newt said pointedly, “You ask some pretty human questions. You're asking what is my purpose, what is the point of all this. That's the most human thing of all!”

“I. I see,” was all Aziraphale could reply to that. He folded his arms across his chest in a self-hug, caught himself and then clasped his hands behind his back to feign calmness he certainly didn't feel. 

Anathema's gaze turned keen. “How do you balance your need for prophecy with belief in the Ineffable Plan?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Listen. At the air base. You said the others might be following the written words a Great Plan but not the Ineffable Plan. And you believe in this, right?”

“I ought to,” he said. “One is not meant to question,” ashamed he couldn't answer firmly.

“I wonder if prophecy is a crutch used to avoid losing control. I burnt Agnes's book because I needed to learn to live. You cannot trust or have faith in an Ineffable plan and, at the same time, be desperately dependent on prediction. That's not belief. They contradict each other.” She looked between him and Newt as she spoke as if just acknowledging to herself the value of her own realization.

“Oh.” he whispered. “Oh dear.” Because she was correct in a way that struck him deeply. 

“I didn't mean to-” 

“No, I'm. I needed to hear that, I think.” Aziraphale groped around his pockets blindly for the paper Crowley gave him earlier and felt as if he was standing outside of his own corporation, watching from a distance. 

“I. I must contemplate what you've said.” He brandished the paper containing the reservation information. “If you don't mind directing me, I think I'll head out now.” 

“I'll give you a ride,” Newt answered as he watched him with concern. “It's right down the road.” 

His answering smile was slight but sincere. “Thank you.”

He turned to Anathema. “And thank you.” He paused as he thought about how the day had unfolded from the moment he slid into the passenger seat of the Bentley this morning. “Isn't it interesting how after so long, I still have opportunities to learn new things?” he wondered, unexpectedly brightening a bit. He performed a quiet miracle of protection and goodness over her, including the cottage and Newton in his blessing. 

She blinked, and her expression indicated she was aware he'd done something she couldn't identify. 

“Oh,” she called out as he headed to join Newt. “Make sure to ask him why he named it Dick Turpin. He'll enjoy that.”

“The highwayman?” Aziraphale turned back and couldn't resist a bright grin. “What a curious young man he is!”

~~~

Checking into the carriage house Crowley rented proved to be more difficult than Aziraphale had expected with the bothersome use of keys and a lockbox and digital pinpad. A short but steep stairwell led to the living space situated above the old stables, which the paperwork indicated now offered parking for up to two vehicles. 

The main living area featured excessive violet, pink, and fuchsia floral décor, including the wallpaper and curtains in it's celebration of botanic gaudiness. There was, however, a comfortable-looking though ugly area near a fireplace with a low coffee table boxed off by a puce wingback, an overstuffed loveseat draped with several crochet afghans, and a papasan chair with plush, magenta cushioning.

A small wooden bookshelf flanked the hearth and a fairly beaten upright piano anchored the corner of the room topped with still more silk flowers and greenery in equally tacky glassware. The kitchen area was really just a wall of appliances off of the main living room. It somehow still found a way to boast a hydrangea theme, but a sliding glass door promised some balcony space and a break from the floral assault.

“Dear Lord this is revolting,” he muttered, cringing as he appraised the rental. He wandered, unable to settle, looking in upon the appallingly floral bedroom with pale pink canopied queen bed with its attached bath, also floral and strongly scenting of rosewater. 

He was jittery, mind spinning over prophecy and ineffability and where he stood on either. Anathema had needled his flaws as expertly as any tailor, and he felt too exposed. He returned to the bookshelf in hope of finding something to keep his mind off the afternoon when the door abruptly swung open, startling him with a loud crack as it bounced off the wall. Crowley strolled in, two bottles of unboxed Redbreast12 whiskey clutched in one hand, a white paper bag in the other. They kicked their boots off at the door and nearly crumpled into the loveseat, only stopping to drop the two bottles on the coffee table. 

“Any decent glassware, angel, because I have had a _shit_ day.” 

“Crowley! What happened?” Aziraphale pulled the novel he'd chosen from the shelf and crossed over to sit at the wingback chair. Crowley appeared pale and and distressed. They projected such an aura of personal confusion Aziraphale felt it best to stick with a non-bianary neutrality until he read Crowley's cues. 

“Oh, you're ol' buddy Gabriel, the sanctimonious prick decided to drop in, hang out, see the sights of Lower Tadfield.” Crowley sprawled further on the loveseat, reached for one of the whiskey bottles and propped bare feet up onto the coffee table, dress hiked up just a tad shorter than indecent and obsidian scales dotting the back of their feet and curling around their calves. “Forget the glass,” they mumbled and miracled the bottle open for a swig. 

“You should have never gone by yourself! He could have destroyed you!”

“Wasn't by m'self, Adam was there.” They waved a hand into the air. “You should've seen him. No way he's human no matter what we're sensing.” 

Aziraphale shook his head, his apprehension mounting. “So we have a human incarnate antichrist still with powers, some sort of odd energy lingering at the airbase, _and_ a visiting Archangel? My word!”

“Naturally,” Crowley snarled and tipped the bottle for another mouthful of whiskey. “Then Adam took me for an unexpected hike of all the sights of Hogback woods. Wasn't as awful as I thought'd be. Had to swap my heels for the good boots.” They waved their fingers in the air in a gesture meant to indicate their demonic miracle. 

“A hike,” he said, commiserating. “Were you at least able to keep the dog hair off the seats?”

Crowley nearly hissed in response, leaning their head into the cushioned back of the loveseat. “That Hellhound is no longer allowed anywhere near my Bentley. Oh the paper wrap, got you a roast beef sandwich on my way back. Deirdre says it's best in village.”

“Deirdre?”

“Adam's mum, keep up, angel.” 

He experienced a mild blush of warmth at Crowley's kindness but kept his appreciation to a light “Thank you,” and a grateful look that brought about Crowley's first reluctant smile since arriving.

Even this must have been too much because they mumbled, “'S nothing,” and rolled to their feet in one movement to head to the kitchen area and pull a crystal drink tumbler from the cabinets. 

Aziraphale let it drop and made short work of the sandwich while Crowley returned with the tumbler, added far too much whiskey, and scooted it across the coffee table for him. Crowley kept the bottle in hand and coiled into the papasan chair this time, dragging two of the unsightly but soft-looking blankets from the loveseat, but not before performing a demonic miracle to shift their dress into a satiny-soft black button-up blouse and dark cropped trousers. 

After such a stressful day, Aziraphale found it agreeable to sit in a comfortable silence. He licked the crumbs from his fingers and settled into the wingback with the whiskey. It wasn't his favorite indulgence, but clearly something had rattled Crowley at the airbase. Something upsetting enough to draw out the twitchy unease Aziraphale hadn't seen in nearly a month. He rolled the nutty citrus of the Redbreast in his mouth and looked over the tumbler at how Crowley had snuggled into the curve of the papasan chair, hugging the bottle and cocooned within blankets. 

“My dear, pronouns, please?” he asked on a hunch. 

Crowley tilted the whiskey bottle and took a long swallow without meeting Aziraphale's eyes. 

“He if you would. I need to,” he stopped, blew out puff of air through pursed lips, and waved the back of his hand in a way Aziraphale knew meant, 'back near the beginning, back to my first.' 

“As you say.” His heart squeezed in his chest and glanced around the room for a distraction but only could finish the last mouthful in his glass. Crowley tended to put thought toward how they wanted to present themselves and how they identified in human terms at any given time. Aziraphale knew an abrupt retreat to his first meant he felt unbearably insecure. 

When he looked back, Crowley was watching him with a bemused expression apparent even with eyes still shaded. “Everything alright back at book girl's?” he asked, sounding mildly concerned. Trust that ridiculous serpent to be worried about him when Crowley was the one who seemed traumatized. 

“I've got a story but please, my dear, tell me what happened at airbase that's got you all out of sorts.”

Crowley shifted to his side beneath the blankets, arms curled around the whiskey bottle. “Eh. Needed to snake my way in. Adam's right, something's up. Ground felt hot, Gabriel picked me up, _stroked _my scutes.” He stuck his tongue out here, long and forked, his nose scrunched in displeasure. “I feel slimy.”

“He picked you up?” Aziraphale said and jolted with fear. “I'm shocked you didn't bite him.” He urgently needed to refill his glass with the unopened bottle of whiskey, gesturing for ice to clatter into the tumbler before cracking the seal on the bottle. 

“I'd probably catch something.” He tipped the bottle he held upside down, shook it until he saw it was empty, and then flipped it and snapped it full with something also the color of dark amber. “I feel like I need to shed. Ugh.” He shivered beneath the blanket. “He said loads of rot about you, of course. Threats.”

“Well he would, wouldn't he,” Aziraphale said testily. 

“Didn't I give you a mobile? At some point? You need one. What if Gabriel wasn't alone and you'd-”

“It was well in hand at Anathema's. We had an entirely other situation, no need to worry about me.”

“I wasn't worried. I just had some concerned thoughts about your safety with your habit of finding trouble.”

“That's the definition of worry, my dear. And I did have a pleasant visit as it were, except..”

“Do tell.” He leaned forward so the blankets completely slid from his shoulders.

Aziraphale thought perhaps Crowley was onto something with his intentions for alcohol and sloth as the evening's plans because it suddenly proved to be an attractive option. He poured a generous share and contemplated drinking straight from the bottle. “Agnes nutter sent a second book of prophecies to Anathema, and she burnt it!” he said, still feeling indignant about the whole ordeal. 

Crowley's jaw dropped in shock. Then he laughed, looking more like himself for the first time this evening. “Bet that hurt you more than it hurt her.”

“Oh, I popped off on her, and she let me have it,” Aziraphale said without remorse. He caught Crowley's expression and reluctantly smiled. 

Now I know you're off the rails.” Crowley grinned at him with fond appreciation. The sight of it lit a wick of flame within Aziraphale's chest.

“Rather.”

They both went quiet again while Aziraphale studied his friend over the lip of the crystal tumbler. Crowley lounged in the mound of blankets; the alcohol had proved efficient at loosening some of his wound-up posture. His coiffed hair from earlier in the day now spilled in disarray and plastered to his forehead. He idly stroked his long fingers over the neck of the whiskey bottle, and Aziraphale had to tear his eyes away. 

He cast about for a subject and settled on the bookshelf. “Mostly pulp novels of the American West,” he said, indicating the shelving with a chin tilt. “And nearly everything by Dumas. Might reread _Twenty Years After_ again.” 

“Abbot Aramis, in'resting choisse.” He pushed his sunglasses so they perched atop his head and watched Aziraphale for a few moments with lazy yellow eyes. “'s there a radio?” Crowley prodded. “Streaming? Gramophone? Sssomething for musical ambiance?” 

“There's the piano,” he replied after assessing the living space. “You learned, my dear boy, when was that?”

“Early eighteenth. Naaah. Means I'd have to move. Not gonna move ri' now. Bessides, thinking 'bout airbase. Ground sizzled but not 's bad as sacred. Ol' Gabe got burnt a bit too. Li'l weird, innit?” He sipped from the bottle and stuck his tongue out. “Refills pisssswater.” 

Aziraphale poured a measure into his own tumbler and held up the bottle with the remaining Redbreast, swaying the whiskey so it sloshed to show Crowley it contained the original blend. “Still have this. Also, This décor is awful.”

“ 'S not what the thing ssshowed,” Crowley said. “Give it here,” he reached out with one grabbing hand but was too far away. Crowley's unblinking scrutiny was still piercing even glazed with the sort of drunkenness that devolved his speech into lisping. 

“And leave me with whatever swill you miracled into that empty?” Aziraphale said airily, but he got to his feet after a few healthy swallows from his glass and handed the bottle over.

“Demon,” Crowley sing-songed as if it were an excuse. 

Aziraphale just barely stopped himself from snorting and placed the refilled bottle back onto the table. He felt constricted and too hot in his layered clothing now that he'd polished off most the bottle on his own. He crossed the room to the hook near the door and divested himself of his topcoat. He removed his bow-tie and stuffed it into one of the pockets and unfastened a button on his collar. It felt a little better and he sighed with relief, rolling his neck to shake off the stiffness. 

When he turned, he noticed Crowley observing him from the cozy nest he'd built, his yellow eyes much more focused than the amount of whiskey he'd imbibed should allow. It gave Aziraphale a bit of a heady thrill. 

“Shadwell thinks I'm a demon,” he said as he returned to the area near the fireplace. He remained standing, but took the opportunity to refill his tumbler with the miracled bottle. A sip revealed it to be a moderate quality scotch, and he side-eyed Crowley's choice. 

“Oh, reminds me! Ssshaaaadwell.” Crowley said, dragging the vowels. “He's a bloody nuisance. He's my team of agents, he's your team of agents. Sssssneaky bastard.”

Aziraphale nodded with feverish agreement. “He swings both ways.” 

“That's not what... you know wha', I'm not even correcting that.” He shook his head with an amused curve to his lips and glanced at Aziraphale from beneath his fringe. He unburied himself from his pile of blankets and stumbled to his feet to make his way toward the balcony doors in order to peer into the evening. “Gonna open this,” he mumbled but didn't step out after sliding the glass panel. 

Some of the coiled tension drained away from Aziraphale in a way even the hard liquor hadn't eased. He was pleased to see Crowley's frantic apprehension had dissipated into his everyday anxiousness. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to erase the desperate expression Crowley wore upon arrival. 

Crowley swiveled from the balcony to circle the room with a meandering pace, trailing fingers over the flocked botanical wallpaper and nudging some of the artwork frames crooked while swinging the whiskey bottle along at his side. “Sssssscale of one to five,” he said with an amused lilt to his voice, “How peeved are'ya she burnt Nutter?” He slowed near the piano and tapped a key several times before testing a C major chord. Then he slid his hand in an obnoxiously loud glissando and flashed a wicked grin toward Aziraphale at the end before taking a deep drink from the bottle. 

“Must you,”Aziraphale sighed. He topped-off his tumbler with the scotch but just held it both hands, enjoying the cool press of the crystal. “A whole new book of accurate prophecies, Crowley. Ashes.” He lifted one hand and sketched a circle into the air to awkwardly indicate the whole rental. “Scale of one to five, five being the...um...the Palace of Versailles,” he teased and flushed with pride at his successful comeback when he heard Crowley's complaining groan; Crowley _despised_ the gaudiness of the Palace of Versailles. 

With the balcony doors open, at least the evening breeze introduced the scent of mowed hayfield and earthy forest into the room. Aziraphale found it appealing and snagged the bottle off the table, leaving his now empty glass before heading toward the balcony. He felt well beyond tipsy, but Crowley seemed completely sloshed. He wondered if the demon had started much earlier and on an empty stomach. 

He paused before stepping out and turned to Crowley with a sudden thought. Crowley was nonchalantly plucking random notes out on the piano but looked up as if he sensed Aziraphale's attention. “Do we need to be concerned for a return visit?”

“Naaaaah. Adam gave 'em a reminder. Gabe wasn't there for us, I think he donno either, to tell the truth.”

“Ugh. But not,” Aziraphale pointed downward.

Crowley tapped out several more notes and moved to join Aziraphale. “Ooooooh, I'm sssure they're washhing us. Haven't sensed 'em but they're there.” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. He would need to be more aware of his surroundings in the future, allow some of his more ethereal senses unfurl in a way he hadn't really needed to do in years. He stepped out onto the balcony and leaned against the railing after a few sips straight from the bottle in his hand. The air was cool, late summer tip-toeing into the beginnings of autumn. Stars in the evening sky twinkled like tiny jewels nestled in dark purple velvet, much more different than his view from London. “It's lovely out here,” he breathed and glanced over his shoulder at where Crowley leaned on the balcony doorframe. 

“Mmmmhmmmm. London's full of lights spewing into...into the...” he flapped the hand not holding the other whiskey bottle, “into the sky. Not one of humans more clever invenshions.” He joined Aziraphale at the balcony rail close enough for Aziraphale to feel the warmth of their sides pressed together. “I miss seeing stars like the old dayssss,” he added in a whisper, his voice tinged with melancholy.

Aziraphale watched from the corner of his eye as Crowley tilted his head back so the slip of waxing crescent moon spilled pale light upon his face. They stayed that way for brief passage of time, Aziraphale watching Crowley at his side, a mellow glow of peace singing within down to his celestial core while Crowley turned wide-eyes toward the sky. 

Crowley broke into the quiet with a little shake of his head. “Wasss thinkin', on my drive,” he began and then stopped.

“On your road trip,” Aziraphale teased. 

“Fine, my road trip,” he scoffed. “Anyhow, was thinking. Maybe invest in another place, a cottage maybe. 'Round Oxfordshire somewhere, Gloucestershire. Near Adam. Not too long a haul from Warlock. Wouldn't hafta stay inna monsssstrosity like this again, can put your own bookshelves in.” His cheeks pinkened and he wouldn't meet Aziraphale's eyes. 

Aziraphale was too inebriated for these sorts of thoughts and just hummed a quiet acknowledgment. If he could have nothing but this, he and Crowley, standing side by side on the surface of the Earth away from Heaven and Hell, he could be satisfied.

“C'mon, too cold out here,” Crowley grumbled. He turned from the railing and pulled his sunglasses from where they were pushed into his hair. He dropped them on the kitchen countertop as he passed by and swayed a path back to the nest he'd built near the hearth. He slid beneath the afghans on the chair he'd commandeered for the evening but propped his legs onto the arm of the loveseat, his ankles crossed and exposed to the open air.

Aziraphale could count the number of times he'd witnessed Crowley barefoot on one hand since the Garden. He found the novelty of it compelling. He waved the balcony door closed and wobbled his way much less gracefully than Crowley over to the loveseat this time rather than the wingback. He slumped next to the armrest nearest Crowley so that his arm brushed against Crowley's vulnerable toes. 

“I needta look into one of these paps.. pasons..parisian..” Crowley attempted and stuck his tongue out, curling it sideways as if that might discipline the thing. 

“Papasan chair,” Aziraphale corrected. He felt bleary, the alcohol thick in his veins and fogging his thoughts pleasantly. 

“Yesss that. 'sss comfy.” 

“Could-uh- could get one for back of the shop,” he mused. 

“You haven't changed_ anything_ in your shop for years,” Crowley murmured. “Move at your own speed. 'Ziraphale speed.” 

Aziraphale took one last sip of the dregs left within the bottle and dropped it onto the carpeting. “You'll be shocked at thish. Left my books with Anama. Aneth. Anathema,” he corrected the name carefully. He clocked Crowley's sudden interested look and felt giddy over it. “An' I'm allowing Adam an' his friends to use'em. One even paged through with sticky brownie fingers!” He mimed flipping pages of an imaginary book and cocked his head at Crowley in hopes that his expression read more altruistic than the mildly condescending thoughts he'd experienced about young, sticky children pawing at his books. 

“Look at you,” Crowley said low with an impish smirk. 

An' I have a lunchdate with Madame Tracy inna few days. Wanna go?” 

“Nope.” Crowley finished off the bottle in his hand and held it up. “Refill?” he asked, and then dropped it on the ground at the shake of Aziraphale's head. 

“OH.” Aziraphale attempted to sit up straight but ended up keeling toward the arm of the loveseat, nearly onto Crowley's slender bare feet still propped there. “'fore I forget, ever need to pus... sesses... no wait,” he stuck a finger in the air, “Po_sesses_ anyone?” He beamed, proud to get that word out. 

“Ahhhhhhhhh. Um. Yeah. Oneze or twice, early days, ya know, was uncomfortable. Like clothesss that don't fit. Easier to be me.” Crowley slumped further down in the papasan, only his head, one arm, and legs from the knee down above the blankets. 

“I like when you're you.” Aziraphale said and plucked at a loose yarn in the blanket draping from the chair. He noticed Crowley's forehead wrinkling in the way it did when he considered something. “What're you thinking?”

“Ssssss'mthin. Just more goin' on. Got feelingss Gabriel issn't inna loop.” 

Aziraphale sighed heavily and tried to shake his head clear. “Archangel Michael isn't exactly a...best. Ugh, a bastion of holiness either,” he scoffed. “They looked,” he frowned at the memory. “Looked damned welcome in Hell at your execution.”

Crowley tilted his head lopsided but kept his sleepy-eyed gaze on Aziraphale. He hissed gently, something that seemed like it was meant to be words about the archangels or Gabriel that disintegrated at his lips. “Pull the blanketsss ov'r my feet, 'sss cold,” he said instead. 

It was a simple fix to bundle the afghan over Crowley, and then, feeling emboldened, Aziraphale left his hand there beneath the crochetwork, cradling one of Crowley's heels while he skimmed his thumb softly and then with more pressure into the hollow beneath the jut of his delicate ankle bone. He traced his fingertips very gently over the top of Crowley's foot so the roughened scales there scraped gently against the pads of his fingertips. He had _never_ touched Crowley, anyone in fact, in this way and it felt surreal. Crowley made a quiet contented sound but otherwise didn't pull away. 

“I'm think'n'.” Crowley began, and then he went so quiet Aziraphale would have thought he'd dozed off if he hadn't pushed his feet further into his hands. “Think archangel Michael's gonna end up double oh sssix.” 

Aziraphale blinked at the non sequitur. “Oh six?”

“Alec Tev... Trev. Mmmmmm. Trevelyan! Janus, you saw it wi' me!” 

“Did I pay attenshion? Wuzit cinema?”

“MI6. 006 fak'd death infron' of 007, goes double agent. No,” He attempted to shake his head but only succeeded in flopping his hair forward again. “More 'is own agent an' wassa cosssssack.” Crowley yawned and stretched so that the blankets shifted with the sinuous arch of his body. He snuggled into the chair, his head pillowed on his arm once he had pushed his hair back from his face.

His feet shifted beneath Aziraphale's hands with his movements. Aziraphale gave up any pretense and changed his light touches into an actual foot massage by pressing into the arch with both his thumbs. “Don't really remember?” he said vaguely. 

Crowley cackled a little drunkenly. “C'mon. Fakes his death at Arkangel, got'll burnt up, 's rogue now. Then issa big ol' confnsa... confa...confron_tation_ 'tween them n' the end, James Bond n' him, how'dya not 'member that one?”

Aziraphale looked back up at him from where his attention had drifted toward what occupied his hands. Crowley's eyes were drowsy and fully serpent, and his mouth curled in a wry smile half hidden by the blanket. Aziraphale's chest burnt in an entirely different sort of warmth than brought on by the hard liquor. 

His words stalled on his tongue, and he let the moment rest as he dared to leisurely trace tight little circles around the scales peppering the underside of Crowley's calf. “Likely all exploshions 'n great noisy things,” he finally said, distracted by the liberties he'd taken. 

Crowley hummed a pleased sound low in his throat that peaked at a relieved groan. He nudged Aziraphale's palm with the ankle he hadn't concentrated on. 

“Theress your new prophesy, angel. Ac'curate predictions of Goldeneye.”

Aziraphale was unable to smother an undignified giggle. “Good gracious,” he mumbled. 

“Archangel Mike gonna start their own synd'cate,” Crowley paused to crack an enormous yawn, “maybe fake a death in Hellfire wi' help of Hell, issa double agent al'ready cuz you saw 'em. An' gonna take revenge aga'nsss M. I. Heaven. An' the devilishly han'some 007 an' his spectacular Bentley will save the day.” He sounded very pleased with his fantasy. 

“You do realize,” Aziraphale said, pausing in his massage to arch his eyebrows at Crowley pointedly, “_I'm the one_ who gets to be Bond in this ridic'lus scner...scnereo if Heaven is MI6.”

Crowley stopped fidgeting and frowned. “Wait.” Their eyes held momentarily, and this time they both burst out in tipsy laughter. 

Aziraphale sobered up just enough to remain completely relaxed but more cognizant of his surroundings. He kept his hand where it was, curled around Crowley's ankle, and he squeezed gently. 

“You can go on, bed looks fine. I've got,” he waved his hand in the general direction of the Dumas novel abandoned on the wingback earlier, “for the evening.”

“Naaa, 'm not leavin' you sssusecptable to rogue angels 'n' demons,” Crowley said, voice gone quiet. “Could be watching. 'sides, m comfy here.”

“Spies?” Aziraphale suggested, but Crowley had already fallen asleep. 

Unwilling to move, Aziraphale miracled the novel into his hand and made himself more comfortable. He smiled in an embarrassingly doting fashion at his friend. “Crowley, A. J. Crowley,” he whispered before cracking the cover of his book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for stopping by to read!


	4. Chapter 4

Ms. Marjorie Potts, much more well known as the phenomenal Madame Tracy, had already secured one of the few outdoor tables at the Truffle Cafe when Aziraphale arrived. Few because it just wasn't sensible to offer an elaborate patio dining area the majority of the year, but today felt warmer with the promise of late summer chasing the crispness from the air. He joined her, and they exchanged pleasant greetings and secured their orders. 

Madame Tracy nodded to the waiter at the offer of coffee, but Aziraphale had already ordered tea and waved a hand over it to add a particular orange blossom honey he preferred but was not available in this part of the world. “I'm afraid I could never really appreciate it,” he said in regards to the coffee, “But I'm particularly fond of cocoa.”

“Have you tried a mocha?” Madame Tracy suggested, tapping a long nail against the side of her mug. “The chocolate and the coffee flavor is nice together, not too sweet!” 

“I've tried a sip of Crowley's before, it's alright but nearly a dessert.” 

She ducked her head as if sharing a secret. “Mr. S takes condensed milk and nine sugars in his tea, might as well be candy!” She smiled fondly. Aziraphale could feel the love she held for the disagreeable witchfinder. They were an unusual couple, but he'd met such over the years with wide diversity. Perhaps the differences between he and Crowley were not so insurmountable-- he clamped down hard on that rabbit hole and concentrated on his tea. 

“I'm glad we met at Anathema's,” Tracy said. “I wanted to speak to you and wasn't sure if I'd ever see you again, if you'd gone back up there?” she pointed upward. 

He felt his smile slip some. “Ah. I'm not exactly welcome?” he began, not knowing how to explain. 

“Oh I heard a bit about your troubles from your demon friend,” she paused as the waiter brought her order of sticky cinnamon roll and Aziraphale's thick slices of warmed brioche with powdered sugar and caramel drizzle. He glanced at her, a little surprised she'd spoken with Crowley. Between the children, Anathema, and Madame Tracy, they'd apparently been a chatty demon while out in Tadfield. 

Madame Tracy sampled her roll and shook her head sadly. “I have never been one for church,” she said when she finished, “I always felt there was right and wrong and anyone with a good head on their shoulders could see what's what.” 

He understood this belief, had met many good people who thought the same. He secretly wondered if some non-believers or those professing a different higher power were all still part of a great ineffable plan of Her devising but wisely kept that to himself. 

“How have you been, really?” she asked. “I didn't get a chance to ask before Mr. Shadwell and I had to leave.” She smiled and added, “I certainly never thought I'd be having a talk with a genuine angel. I thought for sure you were meant to be all fiery and frightening, with the hundreds of eyes and heads and the 'be not afraiding'?”

That at least he could answer. “On Earth it is most efficient to take on a corporal form.” He stilled and thought, considering now. “I don't actually remember the last time I or any of the Angels took on their true celestial form, now that you mention. I've had the same corporation for so long that I imagine my ethereal form fairly similar. And my wings are concealed in a sort of multidimensional space, if you understand?”

“You _do_ have wings,” Madame Tracy said, “I wondered.”

“Crowley's the same way, but demons tend to have more freedom on multiple levels, I've noticed.” 

“So this space you hide your wings is beyond a different sort of veil than the one separating us from the afterlife?” 

“Not quite what you're thinking, it's beyond human comprehension. But it does take a bit of concentration. Old hat by now. This is really quite good!” he interrupted himself and pointed with his fork at his meal. 

“Ever since I hosted--I guess would be the best word-- your ethereal form, you called it, I feel different.” She spread her hands so the shawl she wore fluttered. “More energy for sure, almost sprightly. If I wasn't about to been made an honest woman, I bet I could offer my services of intimate stress relief for the discerning gentleman much more often. And I have had much more success with my seances! Though you should understand, I've removed most the major arcana from my tarot readings so as not to frighten my clients.”

“Yes,” he said awkwardly. He wasn't so sure hosting an ethereal being would aid occult practices, but it did offer an opportunity to broach the topic he'd been avoiding. “That's. This. Well, I wanted to speak to you as well. Do you often share – personality traits- during your occult communications? Demons can possess others but angels don't-aren't supposed to, and I've never asked-”

“Oh, love, most of that is flash, really.” She waved her hands flamboyantly. “A bit of the right sulfury scent in the air, some atmosphere...It's good money, and the guests do dearly enjoy exploring the mysteries.”

That didn't explain much to him. “Er. And the _other things_?”

“Other things?”

“The. Yes, we shared some...images.. rather like the bits with the ropes and er the shaped tools and,” his breath whooshed out in one puff, and he barreled on, “and the...glass...structure depicting a particular aspect of male anatomy? Also, the...um equine switch?” 

“Ahhhhh. You're speaking of my recently retired occupation of providing strict discipline and intimate massage!” she seemed delighted to speak of it. “Some clients required quite a bit of concentration, you know, really much more than a good rogering to get out of their heads. And some didn't want much at all, tea and a touch of paddling, Oh, Mr. Aziraphale, you're looking quite pink?”

“Rather,” he said, completely flustered. “I'm just digesting your answers.” 

Madame Tracy polished off her cinnamon roll and made an a-ha noise like she'd solved a problem. “Are you telling me you're in need of someone to lend a hand? You're so tightly wound, I have a good read on people you know, some don't recognize it in themselves. Well, if that's what you wanted to ask, dear me, I'm retired, as I've said, but I have some fine recommendations--”

“Oh good lord, no!” Aziraphale fumbled out and waved his hands in a stop gesture. He grabbed his tea cup again just to have something to hold. “No, that won't be necessary.”

She nodded. “Oh, of course, you've the sweet young woman from that day by Anathama's,” which made Aziraphale choke on the sip he'd just taken because 'sweet, young, and woman' were not exactly accurate descriptions of Crowley. 

“Which surprised me,” she continued, “Because Mr. S insisted you were not exactly the straightest fellow he'd ever known, in his own words, of course. But then, I took you for a worldly gentleman of all pleasures after our sharing of a bit of intimate space.” 

Aziraphale wanted to slam his head on the table. “It's difficult to explain, those of angel-stock.” He swiped his finger through the caramel left on his plate and licked it off as he considered his wording.

“We don't- we just are. You might choose to present a corporation that's associated with human male or female, neither, or shades of one or the other. How you might identify is separate from how you might present. Crowley fluctuates fairly often, they'll let on how they're identifying any given day no matter how they're presenting physically and no matter what's chosen for clothing, hair, that sort of thing. I've always been comfortable like this,” he gestured vaguely toward his body. “It's much more of a hassle on Earth than it is in Heaven and I expect Hell because so many humans assume you must be one of a binary. Before She created humans, we were just Angels.”

Madame Tracy made a humming sound of consideration. “I've been around, love, and that doesn't sound too different than the position some people find themselves in. Causes all sorts of hurt.” 

“That's not an issue for Angels. They are much more concerned with your celibacy of thought and action. You are virtuous, built for chasteness and pure adoration of the Almighty and made to love all of creation...” he trailed off, now feeling the tremulous upsetting emotions he'd been trying to stifle. 

She nodded and reached out to gently place her hand on one of his. “Oh you poor thing. And that's not how you experience life _at all_ to me. We might've traded a bit of our spirits or energies, whatever you might call it when we shared space. But I think you've always been different from those other angels, haven't you?” 

Aziraphale embarrassingly teared up, sound caught in his throat, because that was exactly it, the true core of the agonizing matter. He pulled his hand back from Miss Tracy and held his cooled tea close to his chin. He blinked the wetness away and met her kind and patient expression. 

“I've been called a pathetic excuse for an angel before,” he shared, voice shaky. “Crowley always tells me to ignore it, that we're on the same side- and we are! But I'm still an angel! I'd make a terrible demon,” he added with weak humor. “I'm nearly not one or the other.” 

“Well I'm just a human woman put on this Earth for whatever reason and I think all those angels must be in need of a good seeing to in order to open their eyes!”

Aziraphale spluttered, somewhat embarrassed but amused. 

“Imagine being made of love, _to love_, but being told it can't be physical or you can't share sexual intimacies, or even be in love with one or more people. How awful!” 

“I don't have to imagine. This is the crux of my struggle.” The waiter returned to gather their dishware and Aziraphale signaled for a chamomile tea instead of another black darjeeling in order to calm his nerves. 

“You have a physical body- corp-whut you called it? You're meant to enjoy it. It goes against all good sense, do you know how many members of the clergy meant to be celibate I've provided my services--”

“Please don't.”

“People. BEINGS,” Madame Tracy corrected and slapped the table with the palm of her hand, drawing some curious glances. “Beings are not meant to be cold, untouched. Or asexual unless that is a choice they've made, and then it should be respected because they _decided for themselves_ it was correct, not because someone in charge has decreed thou shalt not enjoy a good fuck once in a while!” Some of the people watching quickly looked away to pretend they'd been minding their own business. 

Aziraphale ducked his head down some and fiddled with an unused piece of silverware. “I don't think I'm one of those beings, then, asexual,” he said quiet, nearly whispering. This was agonizing, but he wanted to lance it and be done. “I'm not the way an agent of Heaven should be because I do want...intimacies...I thought perhaps it was brought upon by our sharing, but it's not all, is it? I have. Er. I've thought about others, about Crowley in that fashion, I'm ashamed to admit, but I don't even know,” he huffed a little self-deprecatingly, “If this corporation is even interesting in that way, mind I wouldn't change it for anyone, but someone with vastly more carnal experience and proclivities than I might not bother with, well, someone like me?” 

“This is not an issue, Mr. Aziraphale, trust me,” she said, her expression knowing and kind. “First, you underestimate how appealing an eager, inexperienced lover might be, lord knows how many times a client asked me for a virgin performance,” she snarked.

“Goodness!” he said and found himself at loss for words over her bluntness. 

“IF you do need info on how to satisfy your caller properly beyond the vanilla, whomever they might be-” she said before Aziraphale cut her off.

“I'm not! I have a good bit of academic knowledge, and I've seen- ” he blustered, why was he even encouraging this questioning, how did one say unexpectedly-witnessed-orgies to a lady of certain age, “I've just never felt drawn to it as much so I never bothered with details. But now I. I'm drawn. Now. All the time. And I might be. Assenting.” Admitting that aloud to someone for the first time was an unexpected relief. He felt alight as if a great weight had crumbled away. 

“Oh, cooeee! There's a love, I knew you had it in you,” she cheered. Aziraphale felt his blush build which made him feel even more rattled, but the overwhelming wave of calmness he experienced nearly floored him. He shut his eyes and inhaled the light chamomile scent of his tea. 

The waiter had returned to them but Madame Tracy waved him off, telling him, “Why don't you bring some of those assorted biscuits out for us,” and then speared Aziraphale with her regard. “Sooooooo. What's next? Let's build a picture here, plan the battle.”

“A picture?” He opened his eyes and looked at her, confused. “Battle for what?” 

“I need the lay of the land here, love. What are we working with?” She leaned forward, excited like he was her next self-improvement project. 

“I'm not sure-” he began and then paused to sip his tea in avoidance. 

“Alright. Do you masturbate?”

Aziraphale clanked his teacup down hard to the saucer and reared back, now convinced he must be flushed bright red based on how hot his face felt. “I beg your pardon, my dear lady?”

“Come on now, lad, I can't help if I don't know. Have you self-stimulated rectally? Settled down with a good softcore porn flick? I can recommend some. Do you own a dildo or vibrator? A fleshlight? Have you invested in an online sex chat?” Her lips were tilted in a teasing smile, enjoying her public crassness, which Aziraphale found unsettling. 

“I haven't heard... haven't heard of half of what you're even speaking of?” he stuttered out. He grabbed the table cloth with both hands, noticed the returning waiter's salacious expression at the overheard conversation as he dropped off the biscuits, and involuntarily miracled a barrier of silence between themselves and the other tables.

“There's so much on the computer these days!” Tracy was saying while he was in the midst of panic. “I avoided it far too long, but now I have the Facebook and joined a web-forum for world-wide retired painted ladies!” She stopped, likely realizing how he had frozen. 

“Oh this is too much for you, isn't it, you poor dear.” She reached across and patted one of his clenched hands. “I'll stop teasing, I couldn't help it, your reactions are entertaining,” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and huffed, but it placated him. “Crowley does the same thing, you are all ridiculous I'll have you know.” 

How do you learn things best?” she said as a peace offering. 

“Books!” he blurted. Then softer, “I learn best from reading, I always have.” 

“There's a start!” She nodded, encouraging. 

“I have some lovely classic erotic poetry, some are first editions. Oh! And of course writings of Sappho, Wilde, Byron, Austen,” he trailed off while his thoughts drifted to his shop inventory.

Madame Tracy reached over and poked at his forearm for attention, serious for once. “No, you need current, accurate safe and healthy information. You're not going to educate yourself on the finer points of cocksucking from Dickens!”

“My word!” he covered his mouth with his fingertips, his eyes widening as he endured a sudden rush of images and sensations he could not stop that culminated in the imagined mouth-feel of such an act. He felt a bit of ache in his knees and folded his hands together on the tabletop. 

“And of course, along with that, some _ modern_ romance novels? The last few decades at least and not stuffy ol' writing!” she chided.

“I suppose,” he conceded, although he felt she was clearly in the wrong on that point.

“Good, I'll share a list before you go.” She stole the last of the biscuits that Aziraphale had been steadily plowing through. “Now, all jokes aside, how are you feeling now about it all?” She was watching him, concerned, and Aziraphale realized he'd been quite blessed to stumble upon her after being discorporated. 

“It's a bit of a bother,” he confessed, “And very confusing. I'm doing normal things going about my business and am suddenly struck by these _thoughts_ and then I lose myself imagining... things, various encounters of a nature I haven't experienced. Vividly. In inappropriate places. And-” he dropped to a whisper, “It causes certain... physical reactions... I can't seem to control. And I cannot think of anything else for a moment. And.” He stopped and looked at the table, the wall, the silverware. “I don't hate it.” He thought back to several nights ago, unable to resist boldly palming cool skin and feeling a little shocked at how easily Crowley surrendered to his curious fingers. “Not in the least,” he whispered. 

“Maybe it's time?” she suggested gently. “You enjoyed your drink, that bread thing with the sauces you frankly ate _sinfully_, so good show there.” Aziraphale bit down on his bottom lip and glanced down at his clasped hands before looking back at Madame Tracy because that was much too on the nose. 

“Mr. Aziraphale. I'll wager you dabble in all manner of humanly things that people can enjoy. Why not this?” 

“I see,” he said. And he did, mostly. He'd had so much ripped from him recently and felt remade; actually, he'd _been_ remade by Adam, he suddenly thought, and perhaps he was meant to retain a bit of Madame Tracy's bright and healthy interest in carnal pleasures. He nodded to himself, gaining confidence. “Thank you, Miss Potts, truly.”

Madame Tracy nodded and waved off the thanks. “I'll tell you a secret. I'm positive we exchanged some of our spirits or essences, whatever you might call it. I needed a nice quiet spot and ended up at the library for over two hours the other day. I've never spent that long at a library, if ever. I even read non-fiction!” she said, as if scandalized. Aziraphale felt as though he should defend the library's merits, but it wasn't the time.

“But it's all good, you taking a bit of me, I gaining a bit of you,” she mused, now playing with her drained coffee mug. I know I'm a speck to you immortal occulty types...”

“My dear lady,” he said, this time taking the initiative to reach out and still her fidgeting. “I don't often connect with humans, I tend to keep to myself. But when I do, I remember each of you long after you've gone to Heaven.”

“Oh, I don't know that's the direction I'm headed with what some of the activities I've been up to over the years.”

“No.” he held up a hand to stop her. “You have a good heart. And you are lovely to Sargent Shadwell and were very accommodating in my great time of need. You are ineffably uncommon,” which was the highest compliment he could make. 

Madame Tracy was silent for once and blinked tears from her eyes.

~~~

Crowley was at the market, entertaining himself, when his mobile trilled an electropop version of _Killer Queen_. “James Bond, stiff-ass Brit,” he answered and then snorted a laugh at Aziraphale's exasperated, 'You are preposterous.'

“ 'S _Goldeneye_, angel. Wait, I'm not late for something, am I?” he wondered while checking the time. Someone nearby knocked a display over, loudly cursing, and Crowley grinned and ducked into the next aisle. 

“No, I meant to ask you about--what _are_ you doing with all that noise, my dear,” he paused when another customer knocked into the first and they began arguing so loudly it clearly was audible over the phone. Crowley casually made his way to the exit, satisfied. 

“Gummed up the wheels on the Aldi trolleys, a bit of wile to lighten the day.” Something crashed behind him knocking a display of tinned goods in clattering explosion, and he hastened his steps. His grin settled to a thin-lipped smirk at Aziraphale's huffed 'Really, Crowley?' over the line.

“You called me?” Crowley pointed out. 

“Yes, well, I met up with Miss Marjorie Potts, as you know, we were engaged in a very long intercourse on sex and-”

Crowley skidded to a halt right outside and unintentionally tripped up two people in his way. “Wait, what? You what? Where? Who? Aziraphale?” he said. 

“Madame Tracy? Miss Potts? I shared her body recently?”

“Come again?” He said. He rounded a corner so he could stop and lean up against the building brickwork. 

“Oh Crowley. It was uncomfortable but informative, but in public! I suppose we could've come back to the shop for a bit of privacy, but I learned so much!”

“I bet,” Crowley said under his breath. 

“At that cafe- the one with the toasted brioche I adored a few weeks ago. And you know how busy it is. She's quite surprisingly scandalous!” he remarked, sounding much more admiring than offended. “And she has vast experience in human sexuality that she's willing to share with someone like me.” 

Crowley bumped his head lightly back onto the wall and covered the microphone to mumble something that sounded like,“Ngk!” He found himself very confused and oddly turned on. “And what did we learn?” he asked once he'd recovered. 

“Apparently, I am in need research on the sexual possibilities for this corporation. But I'm feeling much more accommodating about the whole bother. You'll be around at six tonight?” 

“Yesss, 'coursse I can,” he said aloud, sibilants lingering heavy. Under his breath he mocked, 'Much more accommodating' with a little disbelief. 

“Good. I just left the shop next door to mine, Intimate Books? Miss Potts suggested a few titles you know I don't carry. They have much more than books there, I had no idea! Alright, see you soon.”

The line went dead and Crowley stared at it. He _did_ have an idea on what that particular store and those similar carried. He was quite knowledgeable, in fact, a bit for work and a bit for play. He left the alley and took a moment to imagine his angel deliberating among the offerings like he chose dessert, a hand trailing over a soft fabric or washed leather, an index finger slipping between lips to sample an edible oil. Imagined what might happen if Aziraphale's hedonistic tendencies began tilting that direction in spite of how Angels were meant to behave according to Heaven. He nearly walked into a lamp post to the amusement of a nearby group of teens. He side-eyed them and sent a demonic curse of unsightly acne. 

He returned to the Bentley and pulled away, mind preoccupied on anything but driving. The last few weeks, in actuality the last decade, Crowley reasoned, Aziraphale had allowed his walls between them to crumble. There'd always been potential, but now there existed an overriding tension difficult to ignore as they orbited each other. 

Crowley knew sensual, knew how to follow that thread of interest back and tempt a libido as easy as anything. He'd fucked and flirted in a variety of combinations humans invented over thousands of years collecting souls for Hell so that it all blended together. He accepted that wasn't something permitted for Aziraphale, perhaps not even of interest to him. But. If he was now considering sampling from the buffet of sex, perhaps satiating his appetite with a string of human flings? Crowley craved part of it. 

He still felt agog when recalling how Aziraphale _On. His. Own._ had initiated the extraordinarily unprecedented touches on their Tadfield trip. Crowley's legs and particularly his feet were still a delicate issue for a demonic serpent who couldn't will away all his scales; he rarely revealed them. His trust was unexpectedly rewarded, and he wished he'd been a bit more sober to sear those stirring caresses into his memory. Perhaps the angel had been testing the waters?

If Aziraphale would even consider a demon seriously for further intimacy. It didn't stop all the captivating fantasies Crowley imagined. He slammed the gas and blew through the cluttered roads, chasing his thoughts.

~~~~

It was a little after six when Crowley let himself into the bookshop. Their earlier phone conversation had left him oddly anxious and he overcompensated with a casual swagger designed to be artfully nonchalant. He was slightly disappointed when Aziraphale failed to notice. 

Aziraphale was sitting ramrod straight on the edge of his sofa, a glass of wine in one hand and a paperback in the other. His topcoat was folded over the arm and books were piled at his feet, in bags, and on the furniture. Half a bottle of a mid-quality red wine rested on the end table. Crowley sprawled in the opposite desk chair and summoned a glass of his own because there was no way he was entering this conversation without a buzz.

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale said, looking up at him and back at the book, his cheeks flushing slightly. 

“You've been busy,” he said and waved his arm at a tilted stack of Mills and Boon paperpacks leaning against a few textbook-like hardcovers. “Is this all from next door?” he said, feeling a little warm and then stuffing it down. 

“I picked up what Madame Tracy suggested, but it's no help at all!”Aziraphale said, dismayed. “Perhaps some of the instructionals, but the fictional writing...” he left off and frowned. “Nothing like my poetry collections or any of the classics, but she said classics were too stuffy. Imagine! _The Heptameron_, too 'stuffy'!” 

Crowley could nearly see the air quotes. He nudged the stacked books over with the toe of his left boot. “Criminal,” he agreed, not knowing what the blazes Aziraphale was referring to, but he basked in his grateful expression anyhow. 

“I know!” Aziraphale nearly gasped at the offense. These here,” he gestured with his glass at the books, nearly spilling everywhere, “This...are...this is current human sexuality? It's so unappealing!” He shotgunned the remainder of his wine, startling Crowley with the abruptness, and miracled the glass off to somewhere. “Take a look! There's an awful lot of unpleasant and painful sounding throbbing going on, and I don't really understand what anatomy this is meant to be!”

“Why d'ya need all this for anyway?” Crowley finally asked, now unbearably curious. He took in Aziraphale's uncharacteristically disappointed demeanor with some concern. 

“Oh Crowley, it's unbearable!” Aziraphale sat back into the sofa and waved the paperback around frantically. Crowley spied a partially dressed pirate and a scantily clad maiden on the cover and tilted his head, intrigued.

“Miss Potts – you know her as Madame Tracy if you'll remember, she and I exchanged a bit of our essences with each other, and I fear it was permanent.” He sighed and flipped his thumb over the pages. “Well. She suggested the foundation might have been there already and just...solidified,” he admitted. 

“A bit of your essences?” Crowley repeated. That explained some of the last month he couldn't attribute to Aziraphale's philosophical uncertainties. He couldn't deny his visceral interest and peeked over his sunglasses, waggling his eyebrows. “Aaand you decided to ignore your instincts and _enormous_ stash here for soft porn recommendations from a middle-aged retired sex worker?” he said, unable to disguise his delight. 

“Oh don't laugh. I'm not used to this.” He looked furtively left and right even thought the shop was clearly empty and said in a rushed whisper, “Do you know I endured an erection I couldn't control at a city market? At the market!” he said, nearly whining. “I've presented that bit of anatomy since the bathhouses and kept it because it suits the tailoring, and it's never done that!” 

Crowley froze and swung his legs back to the ground so he could lean forward and prop his elbows on his knees, wineglass stem pinched between his index and middle fingers. This had gotten interesting. He personally flipped presenting genitalia randomly, if any, and unconnected to how he identified upon the spectrum of human gender at the time. He couldn't help being curious at how Aziraphale handled the situation. He smiled wickedly and enjoyed watching Aziraphale's fair cheeks blush up to his ears. “In public, you say, for your first-”

“Crowley!” 

“Oh, no, you're not wriggling out of this one.”

“Well it was bit difficult not to wriggle when going all _stiff in the cock_ at the sight of someone's indecently tight-clad bent-over backside while you've got arms full of shopping!” he snapped acidly and then inhaled sharp, going wide-eyed. 

Crowley tried to speak but said, “Hngh!” and swallowed through an engulfing rush of needy, aching desire. Aziraphale appeared bewildered by his own lewdness and looked at Crowley, beseeching, with lips parted in shock.

They stared at each other silently and Crowley nearly scorched himself on the heat building between them. 

“In any case,” Aziraphale said, somewhat wild and stumbling on his words, “she suggested these titles, such outrageous titles for most! But I purchased them from Robert next door.” He paused and gestured toward towards the pile of books and unpacked shopping sack, nearly pouting. “Crowley, these are atrocious! As I said, the non-fiction is quite helpful, but the fiction? What is this supposed to teach me?” He flipped to a spot at random. Crowley saw his fingers tremble on the pages.

“The cavern of her pink petaled shell moistened,” Aziraphale read aloud flatly from the novel in his hand. “That's not even appealing, let alone erotic. She grasped his throbbing rod,” he continued, looking frantically unsettled. Crowley experienced a full bodied shudder of revulsion. 

“Aw, angel, don't read that rubbish! Who says 'throbbing rod'.” 

“They wrote it,” he said, indignantly, and pointed at the paperback's front cover. The partially clothed pirate seemed to triumphantly leer at the reader. 

“No one is going to be seduced using that,” Crowley said, rearing back in disgust. “No wonder you're confused. And trust me, I know, I've been doing this for thousands of years, and I never once had to whisper _moisssst_ in flagrante delicto.” He made a dramatic face like he was gagging. 

Aziraphale softly chuckled and rolled his eyes before going quiet. They remained in an edged silence for several minutes and Crowley used that time to drink in his friend, truly an unneeded indulgence because he could cut his vision and still easily recall every curve and shadow upon his face in detail.

Aziraphale seemed to consider the nearly empty bottle of wine and picked it up one handed. Crowley watched, somewhat incredulous, as he stretched forward with deliberate intent to slowly tilt the remainders into the glass dangling from Crowley's fingers. He looked over the bottle steadily at Crowley's shaded eyes throughout but said nothing.

The sharp clack of glass on glass cracking the quiet did fuck-all to pierce the spiraling tension. Crowley cocked his head, puzzled and caught up with arousal under the unusual intensity. Aziraphale settled back into the sofa, posture precise and eyes still keen, his expression thoughtful and earnest like he was waiting.

This was...something. He hoped the angel knew he couldn't set a shiny button down like this and expect a demon not to push.

He leisurely transferred the wineglass into a more secure grip and focused on Aziraphale as he pulled his shades off and placed them with a soft tap onto the table. The change in light forced him to squint at first as his reptilian eyes adjusted, never a pleasant feeling. In this case, it was a calculated move because past experience demonstrated Aziraphale was pliable if allowed to witness Crowley's vulnerability. He was willing to play a little dirty at whatever this new thing was to come out on top. 

Aziraphale met his uninhibited gaze, trusting. He clung to the paperback in his hands. He appeared ruffled, his bow-tie tilted askew, and his sleeves and visible parts of his dress shirt not shrouded by his waistcoat were devoid of their normal crispness. His manner reflected this disarray, but even more fascinating to Crowley was the feral suggestion in his eyes. 

Whatever was going on in Aziraphale's mind, it fueled Crowley's innate sensuality and he absorbed it, relaxing back languidly, legs spread comfortably and one arm loosely propped along the the chair. Exposing his eyes made him feel more serpentine and he rode that feeling, keeping his stare and sampling the air with the flicker of tongue that'd also gone a little more snake. 

He brought the glass to his lips and raised an eyebrow in salute before drinking deeply and draining it.

He fought to keep their gaze locked, intoxicated with power and Lust and forced himself to remain still.

Still.

Steady.

He tilted his head and brought his unoccupied hand to his lips as if to savor the lingering oaky vanilla flavor of the red, very pointedly tracing his fingertips along the curve.

Aziraphale's eyes widened. He shuddered imperceptibly. 

Crowley's smile curled sly with satisfaction and he shifted his long legs to sprawl wider, well-aware of the insinuation he projected, and he dug into his reserves to keep together, to stay cool against the flickering sizzle of heat zigzagging between them to meet Aziraphale's fixed stare head-on, relishing in how the angel's lips parted just a slip, how his breath quickened and how his stiffened spine betrayed his repressed longing until suddenly Aziraphale entire body quivered and he snapped their stalemate with a soft and breathy sounding moan to drop his eyes down to the book in his hands. Crowley flared with bliss at his success, quite pleased with himself. 

He'd won, but what. 

Aziraphale began fussing with the book piles slumped around him again, rearranging them in a pointless effort as he very obviously avoided looking at Crowley. “Crowley,” he said. His voice cracked on the first vowel and he swallowed very audibly. “I must ask.” He paused again. “You've done all sorts of temptations of a particular nature, seductions. Good at it, I expect.” He glanced over from beneath his eyelashes so quickly Crowley nearly missed it, then went back to fidgeting with the books. His teeth bit into his lower lip and held until he spoke again. “You could...you could be _ honorable_ and enlighten me, you know,” he suggested softly. 

Crowley lolled his head along the back of the chair and just watched silently for a moment, completely fascinated and thoroughly twisted up. 

So here was the reason for what transpired moments ago. This was _blatant bait_. Aziraphale was working to tempt him openly and endearingly unpracticed. It was enthralling. 

“Honorable,” he echoed, his voice low and husky. 

Crowley knew this game, played it well in service of Hell or for sheer entertainment. And of course he was always switched on around Aziraphale, teasing over the years, just a touch, always testing because he couldn't help but feel greedy for every scrap of acknowledgment. And while he would be satisfied with non-physical companionship, he'd witnessed moments over the centuries from his angel. Bright, hungry flashes of interest, a surprising and provocative coyness Aziraphale would backpedal when pressed. 

At least until recently. 

This moment was different. It was purposeful. A line crossed. A dare. Once Aziraphale made peace with something, he became stubbornly dedicated. But his comfort zone seemed to wane beyond book knowledge. 

Crowley could educate him. Oh Blessed heavens. His fingers simmered with want. 

“A demon. Honorable,” he said once more and pushed himself to his feet using the arms of the chair after sending the wineglass away. 

Crowley slowly approached the sofa and dropped one knee upon the empty seat cushion next to him, the other leg stretched out to the ground nearly skirting Aziraphale's ankles and angled for stability. He slid one arm along the sofa back and draped it behind Aziraphale's head so his fingertips remained scant millimeters from his friend's bare neck at the edge of his collar.

“ _If it be a sssin to covet honor, I am the mosst offending sssoul._ ” he hissed close enough that he could be sure his breath would brush hot and damp against Aziraphale's ear. 

Aziraphale gasped and shivered. His eyes squeezed shut, and his grip on the paperback pulled to his chest tightened. “Shakespeare, dearest, really?” he said, voice wavering. 

Crowley struggled to keep composure at the undercurrent of longing. He traced the fingertips of his free hand over the tender sliver of Aziraphale's wrist uncovered by clothing, then around each tense finger to soften the deathgrip on the paperback. 

“You don't need this, angel,” he said softly. “I know you love your books,” and he couldn't suppress the tiniest smile, “They won't tell what I can show you.” He guided their hands downward until Aziraphale's grasp completely slackened and the paperback tumbled to the floor. Crowley tucked his fingers into the soft palm of one of Aziraphale's hands, loosening his curled fist, and he threaded their fingers to prevent Aziraphale from anxiously twisting his ring. 

After a lingering moment, Aziraphale turned his head so their noses nearly brushed. “Dearest,” he breathed, meeting his eyes. 

Crowley drew his other leg upon the sofa, keeping his body loose, and sank further into the cushions so they pressed together. 

“You're so brilliant, will you be clever for me?” He brushed the hand draped upon the sofa lightly over Aziraphale's ear, tracing the curve and drifting to the soft skin at his hairline to be rewarded with another barely perceptible tremble. Aziraphale curled just the slightest bit closer, his harsh posture softening. His forehead touched Crowley's temple. 

“I don't. Crowley. I don't know what I'm doing,” he whispered into Crowley's neck, sounding both impassioned and confused. “I'm not...I know you're used to others, more experienced-” 

Crowley slid his hand from Aziraphale's and tilted his chin to touch a light kiss near his ear. “Shhhhh. It's okay.” He pressed another to his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, dry, soft close-mouth kisses they'd shared occasionally before but in no way like this. “I'm right here,” he whispered near but not quite brushing his lips. Aziraphale's expression appeared blurry so close but he seemed willing. “We've done so much together, let me do this for you. With you.” 

Aziraphale raised one timid hand to touch Crowley's cheekbone. He stayed that way, paused and studied Crowley's eyes with a placid expression. Crowley wondered at what he might be thinking, had he reconsidered, was this too fast, would he rather not taint his pure celestial core with the covetous vulgarity of a demon. 

That line of thinking quickly shattered and crumbled to dust when Aziraphale slipped his fingers from where they rested on Crowley's cheek to the shorn hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him back close with more confidence in order to part his lips and touch his tongue tentatively against Crowley's. A contented hum escaped with his sigh. 

They remained this way, bodies soft and quiet, Crowley gently drawing that seeking tongue inward and releasing it to nip at Aziraphale's plump lower lip. He had frequently fantasized doing so with every pout and indulged now delicately, savoring the tang of lipgloss. 

Crowley felt him mimicking the moves and flickered his own supple and now forked tongue against teeth and the softness within, twisting around Aziraphale's tongue as if to entrap him. He felt feverish and somewhat out of control, tongue nearly sparking with infernal fire until he banked it back. 

He reflexively grasped Aziraphale's shoulder tight, pulling them closer, feeling a little crazed at the angel's nearly inaudible half-sob. His other hand slipped with light fingers to caress his neck and tug a shining curl of hair ever so gently. He allowed his eyes to drift shut for short time as they continued trading kisses, Crowley guiding and Aziraphale mimicking before forging ahead experimentally.

He reopened them when Aziraphale pulled back; his eyes darted around Crowley's face until they settled. His lips had darkened, and Crowley still felt his fingers press where they'd come to rest. His heart ached at Aziraphale's uncertain smile. 

“I'm surprised you don't think I'm a naive fool,” he said, voice rasping in a way Crowley had never heard from him. Aziraphale dropped his gaze. “ Like every other angel, going this long, without-” 

“Woah.” Crowley shifted back, liquid-like in his movement and slid both hands to rest on Aziraphale's wrists, holding as if they were formed of glass. “None of that,” he tenderly scolded. His skin burned everywhere they made contact and his protectiveness blazed with an unexpected vigor. 

This was not a challenge to conquer, not a temptation to secure a soul for Hell. This was his beloved best friend choosing to descend into the shadow cast by a solid denial of Heaven's cold and strictly chaste isolation. It was another degree of separation from proper Angel, a hedonistic and sensual selection more suitable for an agent of humanity rather than Heaven.

Earth's side.

_Crowley's side_. 

“I like it,” Aziraphale admitted almost breathlessly. “I know I'm not supposed to,” he eyes flicked upward and then back to meet Crowley's, “but I want it, I want you. I don't even know what it is that I want. But I need you there.” His hands fidgeted as he spoke and Crowley released Aziraphale's wrists to slide his hands down and thread their fingers. 

Aziraphale froze and then boldly lifted one of their joined hands to his lips to nibble along the softness of Crowley's thumb and suck a small kiss where the heel of his palm curved to wrist. Crowley bit back a curse and shook, then dove to catch their mouths up again much more fervently than before, tipping their bodies downward against the sofa cushions with his own weight. He shifted a thigh to part Aziraphale's but kept from pressing against the hardness he'd brushed there so as not to startle him by moving too quick. 

This time they could not stop touching, fingertips skimming over clothing without urgency. Crowley nudged long fingers into Aziraphale's curls as he cupped the back of his head, quivering when Aziraphale did the same while also scratching his fingernails along Crowley's scalp. He captured every soft sound escaping Aziraphale's mouth, savoring the little pleading moans until Aziraphale broke their kiss by tilting his head and pressing his cheek to Crowley's arm, panting something intelligible. Crowley stole the opportunity to taste the line of his neck, worrying at one spot until it pinked-up beneath his mouth. 

He sensed Aziraphale going abruptly tense and he pulled back to discern the sudden shift while feeling a little whiplashed at the sharp stop and go. But if he felt that way, he could only imagine the jumble of thoughts Aziraphale endured as he worked to destroy the chains imprisoning him to an archaic belief. 

Crowley clambered backward into sitting, staying close while Aziraphale did the same. He brushed his hands along the the wrinkles Crowley had scrunched into his waistcoat, leaning gently into Crowley's side. “I'm sorry, I just...” He shook his head, not finishing. 

“Shhhh, 'sss good.” Crowley took his hand and they stayed that way silently, not quite cuddled on the sofa, waiting for Aziraphale to find his words. 

“I can't stop worrying, when Michael or Sandalphon or just- any of them find out,”Aziraphale fretted, worry rising with his voice, “They already think the worst of me, and I fear they'll double down because I _refuse_ to-” he narrowed his eyes and then said with conviction, squeezing their joined hands, “Crowley, I won't let them stop me from being with you.” 

Oh angel, Crowley thought. Heaven had damaged him cruel as any agent of Hell.

“Fuck. Them,” Crowley spit, hitting the consonants hard but fighting to keep his expression soft. 

“Dearest,” he whispered, sounding a little fearful. He placed his palm flat at Crowley's chest and dug his fingers into the shirt fabric. 

“No. Listen. Angel.” Crowley paused and tipped his head back, unseeing, to douse his fiery blast of anger and to collect his thoughts. He felt Aziraphale trace his throat in concern and exhaled shakily. They didn't need to breathe but nevertheless, it was soothing to take a few calming, measured breaths. He opened his eyes to see Aziraphale's sweet face, tremulous smile fixed but eyes reflecting so much admiration that it punched into Crowley's chest and remained there, a buried knot of love burning away the unease. 

“Who are they to judge, they wanted to _kill you!_ Gloves are off now, Aziraphale.” He said, deadly serious. 

“I suppose you're right.” His hand moved to the side of Crowley's neck and fit against the curve, protective.

“I know this is a lot, you're confused, it's fine,” Crowley reassured, “I donno either.” He gestured between them. “They're gonna damn you for this?” 

“Lust is a deadly sin,” he said by rote but lacking any conviction. 

“Come'on now. Tell me.” he turned his head to buzz a kiss against Aziraphale's hand where it burned hot against his skin. “Look at me. Is that all this is? Lust? You know me, I don't go on about sentimental claptrap for just anyone.” He wrinkled is nose in distaste. 

“No, but Crowley, what if they think you've corrupted me, think to punish you instead?” His eyes shimmered but he stayed his tears. “There's more than holy water to destroy a demon. Gabriel nearly smote you not that long ago! I'll fight them, I won't have it!” 

Fuck, he loved him. He slid from the sofa to his knees and dropped his head on Aziraphale's lap, face pressed into the worn waistcoat. He snaked his arms around so they were jammed between Aziraphale's body and the couch and whimpered, a little vexed he was unable to hold it back. His brave principality, ready to raise a sword for a demon when he was the one rebelling against the heavens for what he knew in his heart was right.

Crowley would never kneel to Heaven or Hell but he could drop down so easy before Aziraphale. It should have terrified him, this desperate need to cleave himself to one being, but instead it was buoyant and fulfilling. Soothing hands tousled his hair, tracing the curl of his ears before cradling his head and slipping over his neck and back. Aziraphale whispered comforting noises and Crowley just held on, eyes squeezed shut. He nuzzled into Aziraphale's soft stomach, calmed by dusty allspice scent of his clothes. 

“I'm sorry to turn this all maudlin,” Aziraphale said after some time had passed. 

Crowley turned his head so he was facing upward only to see Aziraphale's beatific face tilted down towards his, wistful smile upon his lips, silhouette backlit by the effusive shop lights evocative of a halo. The words he meant to say to him haplessly faded from his tongue. He gathered himself together and pulled back to flop into a propped up sprawl on the floor. 

“I'm usually much smoother than this, suave as Bond I'll have you know,” he mumbled. He poked a finger at the side of Aziraphale's calf just because he could. “You're exhausting,” he said, but it sounded much too adoring in his own ears. 

“I have a twin bed upstairs,” Aziraphale offered. “I don't use it much. Come up with me, rest some.” He held his hand out. 

Crowley took it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split the monstrosity of ch. 3 into 3 and 4 because I couldn't upload so much data at one time thanks to living in the middle of nowhere! It'll be a bit before I get 5 up now that my free time is scarce. 
> 
> Do you know how refreshing it is to read a published work with a canon mature woman not afraid of discussing sex, no matter how pastel and Bridgitte Bardot her version is? And then seeing it play out on screen rather than hidden away so some viewers can continue to pretend women over twenty-something are old cobwebbed maids? So yeah, I had to play with it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI for this following chapter. There is a character who is the equivalent of homophobic to a character who comes out to them. This takes place in the second half, so for those who might not be in the right headspace to read that, I wanted to let you know.
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~  
~~~~~~~~~~

Sleeping offered no interest for Aziraphale. However, the decadence of a comfortable bed, one where he might snuggle beneath the thick duvet on a frosty evening against stacked pillows with a book in hand and cocoa within reach on the side table? This was a luxury he wouldn't deny himself. Still, even those experiences paled in comparison to this early morning view of Crowley snuggled into his bedding, breaths soft and even, the lines of his forehead at ease.

In all of Aziraphale's tentative fantasies, he'd never thought to picture anyone sharing his narrow single mattress and curled tucked beside him. They'd stumbled upstairs hours ago, and Crowley'd miracled black satin pajamas upon himself before crawling beneath the blankets. Aziraphale remained in his trousers and button up shirt without vest, sleeves rolled. He had removed his shoes somewhere along the way. Crowley was asleep before Aziraphale could even shift the blankets to drape over both of them. He'd shared a sleeping arrangement on occasion over the years with him, but nothing like this, preceded by hints of suggestion.

A bony knee caught between Aziraphale's own once he'd shifted to his side. At some point, Crowley had slipped a hand beneath Aziraphale's dress shirt and undershirt to rest flat against the swell of his stomach. After that, Aziraphale couldn't concentrate on the book he'd propped above Crowley's hip, so he placed the ribbon to mark his page. 

Good lord, what an evening. His emotions skittered widely and tumbled him about as if he were still a victim to Crowley's driving. There was a plan at one point, something he'd poked at since his informative lunch with Madame Tracy. Tender little daydreams of sharing soft kisses and delicate touches that bruised upon impact with the hard reality of thousands of years of Heaven's conditioning. Sharper fantasies of heat and salty skin upon his tongue that still seemed unattainable. 

Aziraphale remained stunned his dearest friend was willing to indulge him with sweet initiation into this sort of pleasure. He just wished it wasn't frustratingly tainted by guilt. 

He allowed the slender volume of poetry to drop and instead reached to brush a lock of Crowley's hair behind his ear that'd gone loose without it's styling. He lingered upon the shorter strands at his nape of his neck but stilled when Crowley's eyes blinked open in drowsy recognition. 

“Is this...” welcome, Aziraphale meant to ask, awkward, but his voice fled with Crowley's unguarded and lazy trace smile. 

Crowley hummed assent while nuzzling his head into the pillow he had curled one arm around. His fingers remained gentle against Aziraphale's stomach and brushed languid patterns. Each touch sparked a flare of longing Aziraphale could barely swallow against. 

“Needed D. H. Lawrence to get you through the evening?” Crowley asked, voice still raspy with sleep. His hand drifted away, and he shifted so his hair spilled like a shock of bright paint across the pale pillowcase. 

“Ah. I needed something substantial after perusing Madame Tracy's selections.” His gaze struggled to settle, flicking from Crowley's sleepy eyes to the inviting pout of his lower lip to a fetching blush of pink marking a spot just above his collarbone which Aziraphale must have enthusiastically drawn the prior evening. He had an impulsive desire to make it darker. 

Crowley propped up onto an elbow. His eyes were much steadier than Aziraphale's, almost too keen with knowing Aziraphale's thoughts. “Tartan bedspread?” he teased instead, sparing him.

This room, this whole flat, in fact, would be all new space to him, Aziraphale realized. “Tartan's-”

“Not elegant in any fashion no matter how often you tempt me to believe it.” He rolled to his back and stretched the entirety of his body with a satisfied sounding grunt. His feet poked out from beneath the covers at the foot of the bed. “Not feeling particularly one way or the other this morning,” Crowley said through a yawn. 

Aziraphale tried not to dwell on how he'd touched those slender ankles not long ago. “What?” he said, distracted, then he registered Crowley's words. “Of course, my dear,” he said. It was another intimacy he'd become accustomed to, a gentle guidance to how Crowley preferred to be known in that moment, a ritual much like how Crowley naturally perceived when Aziraphale wanted demonic nudges to tilt his morality, like how they'd constructed thin excuses to remain close beneath the facade of their Arrangement. He hadn't realized how comforting he found their familiarity and wondered what these new changes might bring. 

He twisted within the blankets to place the poetry book upon the floor carefully, and when he turned back, Crowley had shoved both duvet and topsheet downward in order to wind their arms around Aziraphale and insinuate a thigh between his own. He sucked in breath with muted gasp when Crowley tucked their nose into the hollow of his throat normally hidden by cravat or tie. 

“Three buttons undone; you're a bit scandalous this morning,” Crowley breathed against his skin sounding quite pleased. There was no mistaking a tiny dart of tongue. 

Aziraphale involuntarily stiffened and swore beneath his breath over it. “Sorry, sorry, don't let go,” he babbled. Crowley would give up on him if he couldn't control his flinching. 

“I hate what they've done to you. It's not supposed to be that way up there,” Crowley fretted. They pulled back so Aziraphale could see the disquiet upon their face but kept their arms in a loose embrace. “We'll work it out,” Crowley whispered fervently, “I promise.” 

Aziraphale had to look away from such earnestness. “I don't want you to think it's in disgust,” he admitted. “Or I'm a lost cause, not worth the trouble.” 

“Oh angel, I don't believe that.” Crowley's voice remained soft, a gentle coaxing quality to it. “Anyone who knows how difficult this is for you would never believe that.” 

He met Crowley's eyes again when he felt their arm shift from where it was tucked between the mattress and Aziraphale's body in order to trace something upon his forehead. It was accompanied by a mild stinging sensation that made him shiver. “What are you doing?”

“Er. It's a protective thing. Listen. I've been thinking,” Crowley said, then paused to draw their fingertips in a gloriously slow motion over Aziraphale's cheek and along where his jaw curved to his neck. Crowley's words faded as they became lost in the sensuality of their touch, and their gaze followed their hand as if enraptured. 

Aziraphale's breath hitched. A faint whine slipped out he hoped went unnoticed when Crowley's hand skimmed downward over his bared skin at his throat then up and over the still fastened placket of buttons remaining on his dress shirt. Their hand came to rest with palm spread just below his heart. 

“You've been thinking,” Aziraphale prompted, slightly breathless. He was much too flustered; his free hand anxiously fluttered until he caught part of Crowley's sleeve and gripped tight.

“You might be pushing yourself into something you're not ready for,” Crowley murmured. The light touch of lips against his own following their words felt like an effort to soften their impact. 

Aziraphale shivered, but not with pleasure. He couldn't return Crowley's intent stare and instead studied the curves of their collarbone peeking from pajamas. How like Crowley to pinpoint hidden threads of doubt and pluck them into exposure. He winced and reconsidered how forward he'd been the prior evening, likely appearing a fumbling fool to someone with experience. Naive. Amateurish. 

Except. 

They were still together in his bed. Crowley had not made excuses to head back home, hadn't recoiled upon awakening, and was, in fact, this very moment, watching him with so much open adoration it was nearly palpable. No, this was just his festering doubt clawing it's way back to the surface. 

“I might be...new...at this, and perhaps jumping in a bit too quick, but I'm done with heaven dictating my whole story. And. And. I'm not hiding our friendship or anything more any longer!” he added with a glare directed vaguely upward for emphasis. 

Crowley's concerned expression melted into something fondly doting that they'd likely deny if Aziraphale let on. Rather than draw attention to it, Aziraphale tightened his embrace before he could talk himself out of what amounted to _cuddling_. Crowley hooked one ankle around Aziraphale's calf to tangle their legs together further in response. 

“What I meant was, well, you don't have a lot of experience with touch,” Crowley said with a rueful half-smile. “It's why you're jumpy.”

Aziraphale felt his cheeks go abruptly scarlet until he could get hold of his corporation's instinctual reaction to embarrassment. “Ah. I had no inclination before, and then after sharing with Marjorie, I hesitated to indulge in onanism because-,” he dropped his forehead to Crowley's chest to hide his face, then lifted his head to look up at him. “The Almighty sees everything! And _knows_ our thinking, I assume, so I thought perhaps She wouldn't want to also see one of Her angels so blatantly wanton.” 

“That train left the station years ago, the instant you shoved your first fig into your mouth in the Garden,” Crowley remarked. Then they snorted a muffled laugh. “You'd be in the company of all the other humans who worry God watches them wank.” 

“And dearest,” he said, not particularly seeking humor in this moment, “you know you're the only one I've...acted upon any of this with.”

“Okay so, no.” With the hand not still resting upon Aziraphale's stomach, they twirled their wrist with their pointer and index finger extended as if stroking the air. “I meant even just casual touching. You and I didn't do much.”

Aziraphale considered the last few months in comparison to the majority of their acquaintance. “I suppose not.” 

“It's not just, er. Um. You know, fucking. Bodies need touching.” This time, Crowley developed a pink flush high upon their cheekbones. “Sometimes, I just needed...I'd go find someone..sex wasn't the important bit....urgh, this is why we don't talk about this sort of thing!” they concluded and turned their face into the pillow so Aziraphale nearly wound up with a mouth full of ginger hair. 

As much as Aziraphale would rather not hear the more intimate details of Crowley's vast experience, he understood the point being made. He reached to smooth their hair back. Crowley followed his hand's movement so they were turned back to Aziraphale, chin tilted upward so they could meet his gaze with unvoiced pleading. Their slit pupils were dilated just a hair more than usual and golden-yellow pervaded the entirety of their eyes in their anxiousness. 

“My dear, no need to work yourself up in a tizzy, I understand your point.” Aziraphale tapped his fingernail upon the top button of Crowley's pajama top and admired the contrast in color between the pale white of his rounded French tips against the glossy black plastic. “I have my manicurist, my barber, and I've touched others during dance, I've held hands with all sorts, brushed kisses on cheeks.” Crowley's hand absently stroked Aziraphale's back while he spoke; he consciously tried to relax into it. 

“What about your, uh, your wings?” They splayed their palm flat and smoothed it over where his wings would manifest. 

“It's been, oh dear, not since my platoon took care of each other's during the war. I struggle with them on my own, but it's sufficient.” He tried to imagine Crowley sitting patiently to smooth his unruly feathers and couldn't quite picture it. “Some angels still do groom each others wings, I've seen it. Must be presentable, you see. You might still remember that?” he added, hesitant and aware he'd begun babbling once he'd been struck with ancient memories of Heaven. 

Crowley pulled back slightly. “That's all dead to me. Deadname, deadsphere, whatever I did. Dead.” They smiled, but it appeared bittersweet on their lips. “And no demon trusts another at their back for good reason.”

“I didn't mean to bring up anything upsetting,” Aziraphale said softly. He fiddled with the button pinched between his fingertips rather than meet Crowley's eyes. “Perhaps we could work up to that together?” 

They sighed and rearranged to shift to their back with one arm stretched wide and one flopped above their head, twisted so Aziraphale felt their fingers toying with an errant curl. “ 'S fine. I'm not upset. For a long time, I hated the unfairness. But now. After seeing how you're treated, seeing what's become of Heaven,” Crowley glared at the ceiling; their grin flashed sharp and angry. “I don't particularly give a shit.” 

Aziraphale wasn't sure what to say. He scooted closer until his head fit snug onto Crowley's shoulder. After a quick scan of their profile to assure himself this was accepted, his attention drifted back down to the button he kept absently slipping through the buttonhole and refastening. The morning remained surreal and uncharted, the indulgent lounging in bed, the ongoing and welcomed proximity to Crowley's appealing scent. He thought perhaps here, finally, he could cling to Crowley while the universe spun around them in progressively complex circles.

“If not your wings,” Crowley said suddenly after they'd both been quiet with their own thoughts, “what about in your celestial form?” They tilted their head close. “Have you joined somebody else in the True way before?”

He startled, incredulous, his attention back on Crowley's face. “I. Didn't know that was possible? I've never heard of such a thing?” He narrowed his eyes and thought back through the millennia. Nothing, not even discussion to forbid it. It just didn't exist. “It sounds terribly taboo!” he said, completely fascinated. 

Taboo? Of course it's possible!” Crowley sounded exasperated and raised one hand in the air as if to wave something away. “I don't remember exactly how. Nobody's beating down the gate to join energies with a demon. But. What? They just ripped the knowledge of it right out of everyone's mind? Did they strip away the ability too? What else did they take from you after we Fell?” they asked, horrified. Their arms embraced him again and drew tight.

“It appears as though there's been much kept from me, or at least from those of us within lower spheres.” Aziraphale's disillusion was minimal by this point, but it failed to prevent a flicker of sadness. 

“So much erased. Why am I not surprised,” Crowley grumbled. 

Aziraphale's mind darted after the suggestion. Angels once joined their celestial forms? Had they loved passionately as well, perhaps lustfully beyond their devotional love for the Almighty like the precautionary lessons of angels who'd sired nephilim? Were they not just parables after all? Humans loved each other in that way from the very start, and She'd Created them in Her image. Madame Tracy had suggested he likely had a buried instinct triggered by his possession of her body. What if Crowley was right? 

Aziraphale realized he'd become entirely too caught-up in his thoughts when Crowley squirmed beneath him and whimpered a needy, hushed sound Aziraphale had never heard from them before. He glanced about, uncertain, only to see he'd completely undone the button he'd been fussing with unwittingly on Crowley's pajama shirt and slipped his hand through the opening. He snatched it back from where his fingers were brushing against the exposed skin but left it hovering awkwardly. 

“Oh!” he said, rather flustered. “How presumptuous of me!”

Crowley did not appear at all disapproving and positioned themselves so Aziraphale could see their hazy eyes and avid expression. Their teeth were biting indents into their lower lip. “Go on,” They urged. “Undo 'em all. By hand. I want you to.” 

“I would dare say I'm eager to oblige if it wouldn't puff you up even further,” he said much braver than he felt and gingerly returned to Crowley's pajama top. His heart thumped in a distractingly human fashion and his fingers shook more than he hoped, but the simmering thrum of want urged him onward.

“I would dare say. Eager to oblige,” Crowley mocked softly. Aziraphale shifted to his stomach for more comfortable access, glancing between his own hands at work and Crowley's face in curiosity. 

Aziraphale parted the satin with each unfastened button to expose Crowley's chest. He slid fingers over the surprisingly fine hair he discovered and mumbled a distracted,“Yes?” in response to their teasing. 

“Hmmmmm. nothing.” They arched their spine and tipped their head back onto the pillow so their shirt slipped open invitingly. “It's just satisfying to realize some fantasies are spot on. Makes a demon wonder what_ other fantasies _ about their angel've got a chance.” Crowley's hands found their way back to where Aziraphale's untucked shirt crumpled, and they lolled their head along the pillow until they were peeking up him with a mischievous expression and flirtatious smirk. “Makes a demon wonder what dirty fantasies their angel might've squirreled away.” 

“Oh for goodness sake.” He tried to ignore how his cheeks flushed to his ears; Crowley had entertained lascivious thoughts about him, or was that more teasing? He considered this while finishing off the remaining button, allowing a much better view of how Crowley's stomach quivered just the slightest in response to his touch. He succumbed to a deliciously naughty impulse to press a chaste kiss there and enjoyed Crowey's answering tightening of their fingers as they twisted where they gripped his shirt. 

“You asked.” Their voice took on a breathless quality he'd never quite heard from his friend before. Well. Aziraphale had never rest his hand in this way upon his friend before, had never touched his lips to the flat of their belly either. He considered as he skimmed his palm slowly to experience every line and dip, would he enjoy a caress such as this? Sure, he was soft where Crowley was all bones, but Crowley’s fingers were long and slender, certainly capable of fitting his roundness. 

“Mmmmmmmmm,” Crowley hummed. “I've got an idea.”

“Do share.” He flicked his attention upward from where his lips hovered just above their navel. 

“This is you touching me.”

“Well spotted,” Aziraphale said tartly, but it nearly felt as though Crowley had read his mind. 

Crowley snorted, then pushed softly at Aziraphale until he moved back into a sitting position. “I'm not the one hopping around like I've been stung when someone gets their hands on me.” Their teeth flashed in a toothy smile, and they patted him on the elbow to make their point. 

This was unfortunately true, though Aziraphale scoffed at the description. He was very interested in any ideas Crowley might have to work past his skittishness. In fact, he was beginning to consider he might only want it _to be _Crowley for as long as they were amenable, and he'd cross that bridge later once Crowley wearied of him. 

“Up you go,” Crowley said, shooing him from the bed. “Gimmie a sec.” 

Aziraphale rolled away, puzzled, and stood at the bedside to watch as Crowley scooted upward, knees digging into the mattress while they fluffed several pillows against the headboard. They slid the rest of their pajama shirt off into a shimmering pile of dark satin and leaned back into the nest they'd created. Once settled, Crowley patted the mattress in the space between their spread thighs and quirked an eyebrow in proposition. 

“You want me to sit between your legs,” Aziraphale clarified. He could barely push the words out past a tongue clumsy with nerves and want, still so new in how it swept away everything else. Crowley'd gone shirtless often over the years, the wiry tautness of their abdominal muscles accenting a supple form and meant to draw eyes and lustful thoughts. They very rarely manifested breasts, and even then, kept toned and lean rather than plush curves. The sight of his dear friend had never quite taken Aziraphale as it did now, like treacle slipping along his spine and pooling below the navel he felt authentic for this corporation. 

“That's the plan. Well not _the_ Plan, it's _a_ plan.” Crowley scrunched their nose and blew at a tuft of hair that'd flopped over his eye. “Maybe it's part of somebody's plan.” Crowley ducked their head bashfully. 

Aziraphale's heart swooped at Crowley's inane words, a sign they were more nervous than they wanted to appear. Some of the lingering hesitation dissolved. 

“I trust you, dearest.” He moved back onto the mattress but stopped when Crowley's hand touched his shoulder to halt his movement. 

“Oh wait. If you'd like, lose the shirt, undershirt too. In fact,” Crowley tilted their head and met Aziraphale's eyes again, their own alluringly wide and persuasive.“Yeah, if it's not too much, would you?” 

He felt somewhat self-conscious but went ahead and began unbuttoning with sure fingers. He draped it over the foot of the bed in hopes it wouldn't slide off and saw to his undershirt. “Not sure why this feels different,” he said in a voice muffled by the fabric. “ You've seen me disrobe.”

“Mmmm.” Crowley said vaguely. 

Aziraphale glanced up once he finished to see Crowley intently watching, lips parted and expression captivated in such a way he could only shiver in response. Crowley trailed their long fingers up over their chest, pausing to scrape at one peaked nipple and continuing onward to languidly stroke their neck. They thumbed at their lower lip and returned their fingertips to their throat in a freely erotic gesture Aziraphale had witnessed many times before during their history together. The steady hum of Aziraphale's arousal spiked, all concentrated into his hardening cock with one hot rush that left him dizzy. 

Perhaps Crowley hadn't been winding him up earlier with his talk of fantasies after all. 

“Alright, alright,” Aziraphale said mostly to himself. He allowed Crowley to guide him into settling between their legs, feeling a little foolish and fighting an instinctive stiffness. When his bare back pressed to Crowley's chest, the sensation struck him like a gutpunch, and he barked out a rough sounding, “Ah!” His eyes popped wide, and he clasped his hands over his exposed belly in a self-hug. 

“Easy,” Crowley soothed. They hooked their chin over his shoulder and wrapped their arms over Aziraphale's to pull him further flush. “Rest your head back,” they whispered. “Relax, that's good,” they praised when Aziraphale consciously exhaled away some of his nerves and complied. 

Rather than an uptick in his anxiousness, instead he felt safer within the warm parentheses of Crowley's legs, with Crowley's arms holding him secure, their voice hissing sweetly into his ear. And really, how could he have imagined anyone other than Crowley; who else could he entrust with such a delicate introduction if not someone he loved and had known his entirety of his time with humankind? 

“I want this,” he reassured, “it's just hard to-” he paused when Crowley threaded their fingers together, unable to explain away his tenseness. He trusted Crowley, why couldn't he just relax? “I'm sure...I don't....I'm likely not what you're used to,” he finally spluttered out. 

“ 'M not _used to _ anything,” they murmured. Their lips were near his temple a hair's breadth away from brushing his skin. They chuckled low; Aziraphale could feel it at his back. “And I can guarantee I've never had a blazing hot bastard of an angel between my thighs.” 

“I should think not,” he breathed, blushing at Crowley's words. He smiled, gentle, then untangled one hand to smooth his fingers upward upon Crowley's arm. His eyes almost drifted shut while he concentrated on Crowley's warmth, hoping their steady presence would melt his remaining concerns. “Oh my dear, I do enjoy how you feel,” he sighed. 

“So now you're all snug, we're gonna play a game.” They must have heard Aziraphlale's uncertain hum because they wheedled, “I promise, you'll like it.” Crowley took hold of Aziraphale's hand and guided it to his forehead just below his hairline. 

Aziraphale glanced upward cross-eyed to see the edges of fingertips. “If you're certain.” 

“Do what I do. I want you to touch your face, your eyes, your lips. Like this.” They released his hand and with a light, tickling graze trailed a path over his closed eyelids, over the arc of his nose, pausing to brush across his lips. Aziraphale opened his mouth a fraction and nipped at the tip of Crowley's finger, feeling a bit cheeky. 

“I'm going to remember that,” Crowley hissed into his ear, sounding amused, and pulled the arm still wrapped around Aziraphale's waist tighter. 

“I feel ridiculous,” Aziraphale complained mildly. He followed along Crowley's path obediently though, noting how his fingers felt warm and pleasant while Crowley's sparked a shivery tingling sensation reflected atop his spine. “Oh, goosebumps!” he squeaked and dropped his hand to the bed. He opened his eyes when Crowley huffed a noise into his shoulder. Crowley's hand stilled, and now it rested flat upon Aziraphale's collarbone, framing his throat tenderly between their index finger and thumb. 

“I wonder why they went with goosebumps and not duckbumps,” Crowley mused. “They look the same plucked. You ever pluck a goose? I could've gone without that experience.”

Aziraphale shuddered from his bubbling laughter. “Sorry, no waterfowl of any sort.” Crowley was still...Crowley; not some enigmatic persona of seduction they might use for temptations. He tipped his head back further and finally softened against Crowley's supportive body as his anxiety ebbed. 

“Ha. There you go,” Crowley said, their words taking on a satisfied lilt. 

“This is actually rather comfortable.” 

“Aziraphale, you ignored a vital thing your corporation needed for six thousand years. Let yourself give in,” they said softly, the plea dreamy and compelling in a way that yanked at _something_ within Aziraphale's mind. “Can't tell someone how to give pleasure if you don't know what you like.”

“I wasn't meant 'to like' anything,” he feebly defended, then tightened both hands into fists when Crowley mouthed the tendons where his neck flexed. They're fingers continued sketching swirling patterns along his bared arms and over his chest in calming, featherlight motions. Aziraphale remembered suddenly he was meant to follow when Crowley enfolded his hand in their own and returned it to smooth down his breastbone. 

“I watch you taste and savor things,” Crowley said low and sultry and hissed against his ear, their tongue flickering at skin he never knew to be sensitive. “You celebrate all the interesting things humans create. You find them and share them with me.”

Aziraphale's eyes drifted shut against his will and most his focus centered on the lick of heat tailing their joined fingers. “Of course I do, my dear,” he reassured, relieved his voice wasn't trembling. “of course I would.” He tilted his head so his lips gently brushed wherever they met the musky warmth of Crowley's skin, seeking the mildest contact. 

“Now it's my turn to share with you. Let me do it,” Crowley begged softly, chin pushing at Aziraphale's until their mouth could shift hot on his ear and jaw. Aziraphale quivered in response and stifled a groan.

“Let it be me,” Crowley panted. “You know I'll do right by you. You know it, angel.” 

He felt cocooned within Crowley's full-bodied embrace and so submerged he couldn't speak, just exhale slowly in a drawn-out, crackly moan that might have embarrassed him if he wasn't so lost to sensation. His trousers and remaining undergarments were now so uncomfortably tight he shimmied awkwardly. He was so unclear on what he wanted. There was too much, too many options, it would be so much easier if Crowley would just direct him- 

-but the thought slipped away when Crowley took the initiative to move their joined hands into pressing down upon himself with a firmness he was unable to resist arching his hips up against. 

“My word! That's...that,” Aziraphale struggled to string his thoughts together. “That actually makes it ache even more!” he finally settled upon. He rocked forward enough his back felt chilled where it separated from Crowley's chest. 

“Do you want to take the rest off?”

“Not sure,” Aziraphale gasped out. He stroked his own hardness along the seam of his trousers with Crowley’s comforting hand resting atop his own. It made him shiver with a guilty thrill. 

Crowley's breath ruffled the curls at his neck, likely in complete disarray by now. “You'll feel so much better. No need to be shy over it.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Aziraphale chided, but did so through a smile he feared too revealing. He turned his head just until he could catch sight of a sliver of Crowley's profile and their very coy expression. “When have I ever been shy, my dear. Honestly,” he added and gestured away the remainder of his clothing with his free hand. Crowley released the other and smoothed along his newly revealed skin. 

For the first time, Aziraphale sensed the warmth at his hips and the slick coolness of Crowley's still satin clad legs firmly bracketing his own, silken in how the pajamas slipped against his skin. Crowley slid their foot along his calf and ankle in a possessive caress. Their voice went husky and choked, murmuring, “No, never shy, sweet sweet angel.” Their nose buried into his hair but they kept on, “you're so blessed pretty, so bright, you'll burn me up and, oh, how I want it.” 

Crowley's hands roamed along the soft fullness at Aziraphale's stomach, a curve of inner thigh, sometimes punctuating their wandering with a scrape of nails. Then they cupped the swell of his hips and held, just as Aziraphale wanted, so similar to his fragile imaginings it dragged an indecent sound more felt than heard from somewhere deep inside. Crowley was still whispering into hair, then into the hollowed shadows of his throat, seductive things that wormed their way into his gut and seared in their honesty. 

His hand was still and tentative upon the unique tender hardness of his newly bared erection. He tightened his fingers in slightest hint of pressure and the most hesitant of caresses. Even that faint brush was enough to coax a roll of sumptuous pleasure he'd never experienced. 

“That's brilliant!“ he quietly praised, altogether stunned at how the blissful sensations echoed throughout his entire physical corporation when he repeated the movement more confidently. 

“I know, isn't it?” Crowley said with a heady enthusiasm. They nodded so eagerly their chin dug into Aziraphale's shoulder, and they looped their arms around aziraphale's belly to urge him to scoot backwards and sit flush to their chest again. This time Aziraphale moved easily, loosely. “Now keep touching yourself for me,” Crowley urged. Their hand covered Aziraphale's again with gentle adjustments to his grip. Their breath hissed in an extended puff that tickled stray hair near his ears, and they stumbled out, “Wait. Not for me, for you.”

The sweet and novel softness of his own cock cradled in his palm shocked Aziraphale into a rhythmic, natural movement eliciting a tremble he knew Crowley would feel where they touched. His thumb circled atop, snug, then even tighter like a band of molten heat. Crowley's slender fingers pressed his, guiding in tight little strokes. Aziraphale moaned breathy and languid when Crowley's fingertips teased the smooth cockhead as it peeked out with each slide of his grip. 

“A-zir-a-phale,” Crowley crooned soft, like a lullaby, between sharp, quick nips at his neck. “Feel it? Feel it build up? That bit where it hurts something sweet? Think about how good it'll be to let go.” 

“Oh! Oh Crowley,” he gasped in his astonishment with discovering such an awareness of himself. Any reluctance had seared away, burnt in a voracious longing, leaving him open and raw to Crowley's honeyed persuasive whispers. He grabbed for the the arm Crowley'd left looped tight around his chest and sunk his nails into whatever softness he could find. 

“See what you've learned already?” They thumbed at the tip again, and when Aziraphale jerked his hips unexpectedly in response, they hissed, “Ssssuch a clever angel. Eager for it. You like when I do that.” Crowley sounded so pleased, so smug, it tugged something within Aziraphale that wanted more.

“What else? What should I do?” he pleaded, caught between sensation and devotion. 

“Try a twist at the end, this way.” They curled their fingers around his hand, guiding into a subtle tilt of wrist. It struck him in a new way, flashing sharp heat, like lightning flaring outspread to his toes, sizzling in his throat, snapping back to fingertips. His cock stiffened further, sublime in it's aching warmth.

“This feels _ nothing_ like I imagined,” Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut and rolled his head further into Crowley's shoulder. The enticing scent of their damp skin had him inhaling deep. “Not sure what else-” he began then cut himself off with a press of his tongue to his front teeth in response to a clever flick of Crowley's wrist. 

“Hngh. Agh, there's so much. Tell me,” Crowley breathed out, “I'll give it, anything you want.”

Aziraphale meant to keep silent but found himself blurting, “I want you.” His voice hitched over the confession.

Crowley embraced him tighter still, leaving trace fingermarks at his side as if they meant to grip so close their bodies would meld together. “Got a fabulous little cunt lately. You could have me that way if you'd like one day, work that gorgeous cock you've made right inside me.” Aziraphale could feel them rock themselves in a sinuous roll all along his back. “ 'S good inna different way. Slicker. Softer. Would be like- oh. Hey. We could use something slick now, sorry.” They loosened a hand just enough for a quick gesture and now their entwined fingers moved silky-smooth with the miracled lubrication, sliding faster in a surge of rapidly building pleasure. 

“Slippery,” Aziraphale said beneath his breath, then huffed out a choked laugh when Crowley snarled-

“-Don't say moist!” 

“Won't,” he sighed in one languid, freeing breath. Aziraphale lost all propriety now; he sprawled decadently against Crowley while sharp, clipped moans slipped out, uncontrolled and nearly obscene to his own ears. 

“Look at you,” Crowley husked, his voice frayed and shaky, “angel, look how well you ride it, how tempting you are, tell me, are you close? ”

He could barely gasp out,“It's different now,” and licked at lips that'd gone dry. He stripped his hand frantically, knocking Crowley's away by sheer motion and curling his fingers desperately along the underside of of his cock. “Dearest, oh, oh! It's very good, there's something there, maybe a little more.” He bent a knee and tightened his hand instinctively, pushing up into his fist, feeling deliciously wild and needy and chasing something spiraling that he didn't quite understand but wanted so terribly. 

“Yes, yes, keep going, you're nearly there,” Crowley bit at his neck like they couldn't stop themselves.

“Am I?”

“Ah fuck, so perfect, my angel, mine!”

He was so very close to an unfamiliar threshold he struggled to topple over, edging on pain, his erratic strokes frantic and holding him back. “Help me finish!” he begged, desperate. 

“Shhhhhh, got you.” Their hand was back immediately, warm and steady on Aziraphale's feverishly aching cock, enveloping his shaking fingers and fitting the spaces like melting wax. 

“Now... now,” he nearly sobbed. His wrist burned, and he couldn't help arching back into Crowley. His hips canted further while his thoughts went fuzzy at the cresting euphoria, building upon itself into an untried, urgent peak, and then suddenly dropping him _hard,_ exploding outward in a sweep of startling intensity before surging back in, pulled to an incandescent core at the very center of his being. Everything went brilliantly white in exquisite pleasure; his mind sang like the resonance of a struck bell, his corporation trembling. The instinct to push forth his wings was barely contained. He took some time to let his thoughts float uninhibited, knowing Crowley was secure at his back. 

Eventually, muffled sounds near his ears solidified into words, into Crowley's ardent and possessive whispers of “angel, angel, my angel, mine,” peppered between kisses. “You needed this, so blessed hot, coming apart in my arms. You back with me, angel?” they added when Aziraphale shifted within their embrace. 

Aziraphale tried to say something, anything, but he remained overwhelmed and simply nodded. He noticed Crowley had miracled away any mess, and he tapped at their forearm several times until they loosened their hold. After several wobbly attempts, he dragged himself from his spot between Crowley's legs to flop into sitting against the headboard beside them. He allowed himself the weakness of leaning upon their shoulder while he waited on both his mind and corporation to settle. 

Crowley flexed their ankles and opened and closed their hands, a touch too theatrically, Aziraphale thought, then they reached to tilt his face into an unhurried and gentle kiss with a satisfied sounding hum. 

In this too, reality soundly trounced his imagination, when he'd considered kissing at all. And what sort of hedonistic, lustful being was he that he'd fantasized all sorts of carnal activities over the sweet innocence of kissing? He very sure he wouldn't return to a life of pretending to be the well-behaved representative of heaven he frankly never was in the first place. He'd gone aflame like water on a grease fire at Crowley's touch. And oh my, he chastised, this was meant to be reciprocal, right? 

Aziraphale pulled himself away regretfully from their languid necking. “What about you?” he asked. He could hear traces of remaining shakiness in his voice. “Do you want me to-” he cut himself off, feeling uncertain, and waved a hand in an ungainly fashion toward the entirety of Crowley's body. In a surge of boldness tempered with a desire to seek comfort, he spread his hand flat high upon Crowley's thigh and slid it slowly over the dark satin. 

Crowley tipped their head and the indulgent smile on their lips turned wicked. “The talks we can have now, mmmmmm,” he groaned in a tease and rolled their neck so their chin was tucked downward toward their shoulder. Their eyes slanted toward Aziraphale, watching for his reaction. “I like to hold off. Wait. All wound up right to the edge without going over,” they said, “just enough to be close and draw it out, resssist,” he hissed. Crowley met his eyes again with a heavy, meaningful gaze. “I'll show you. I'll show you everything.” 

Crowley was sincere and passionate. Aziraphale could see this, and yet, he was so very much out of his depth. Crowley would keep their promise, but they'd get bored and lose patience eventually, wouldn't they? What if Crowley was pretending even now, and that's why they didn't want his touch?

He pulled his hand back. “So you're not...er..affected?” Rather than continue allowing them to see the bare emotion in his eyes, he concentrated upon on the blankets bundled up near the foot of the bed. 

“Oh, no, no, no. I know that face.” Crowley's forehead wrinkle in dismay. 

“What face,” he mumbled. He looked down at his stomach with it's plump roundedness, abashed, and flicked a glance upward through his eyelashes to study Crowley's face.

“_That _face, that sad, quivery little pouty lip and shiny-eyed thing, oh here, let me-” Crowley took Aziraphale's hand again and drew it downward so joined fingers could slip beneath elastic waistband of their pajama bottoms. Wiry curls brushed Aziraphale's palm before Crowley guided his hand to trace velvety plushness that seemed at odds with Crowley's bony sharp angles. Crowley shivered and hissed a breath out through clenched teeth. Aziraphale's attention caught on how the satin shimmered as it shifted with their hands. 

“Just... just the tip, just so you see,” Crowley breathed. “Nothing delicate about this effort but too much more and I'll come.” They nudged Aziriphale's index finger so it just barely sunk into soft heat, then withdrew their own hand, leaving Aziraphale alone to curl his fingers the slightest bit, gently moving, to stroke his thumb curiously with a subtle pressure. Crowley moaned deep in their chest and their hips bucked upward, unintentionally edging Aziraphale's fingertips further within Crowley's warmth.

“That's. Yesssss,” Crowley sighed out, and their whole being shuddered in a way Aziraphale found fascinating. They placed their hand lightly on Aziraphale's elbow and drew their fingernails slow to where his wrist disappeared beneath their pajama bottoms. “Your thumb on my clit like that, you have no idea, it's almost too much.” Their voice shook when they trembled again. “Feel it? Feel how wet I am for you?”

“I...yes.” He couldn't help glancing in mild disbelief between Crowley's blissed out expression and where the glossy satin moved liquid and hid his hand's lazy exploration. His own spent cock pulsed with a warmth of interest he noted and ignored. “I didn't mean to doubt you,” he consoled. 

“I wouldn't lie, angel, especially not about this, not after everything we've been through.”

“I know, my dear, I know,” he soothed, nearly as soft as a whisper. He gently pulled his hand away when his wrist began to ache, looked at his fingers for a moment, then brought them to his mouth to taste with a tiny flick of tongue. The sweet-sour saltiness drew a helpless sigh of pleasure from his lips. This was Crowley, he was _ tasting _ part of Crowley. It was ridiculous and wonderful and still very surreal. 

“Crowley watched intently and tilted their head back to stare at the ceiling. “I'm gone for, “ they said. “Discorporated.”

Faster than he could process, Aziraphale was pulled into a straddle over Crowley's thighs with the guidance of a wrapped arm around his middle. Crowley nudged him closer with light pressure of their knuckles. Aziraphale struggled at first to balance and found it easier to spread wide to bracket Crowley's hips. He settled into Crowley's lap with both hands braced just below their ribs. 

He gasped quite beyond his control. Crowley took advantage and slipped their tongue into his mouth, possessive and hungry. They pulled away only to nip tiny bites beneath his ear, speaking low with little mumbled self-admonishments of “not what I planned,” and “need to... need to stop, but oh, angel,” their soft voice slid into a growl, “you blessed, luscious thing.” 

“One more kiss?” Aziraphale begged, feeling suddenly aware of every place they touched. He lost himself within moments, tasting and touching, sweeping hands along Crowley's smooth skin. He marveled on how he could feel their muscles flex taut and strain beneath his palms, at all of the sinewy strength retained from their serpent form. One of Crowley's hands had drifted to his bottom and cupped him there firmly and possessive. Their other was buried in his hair and, after more time lost to kisses, gently, ever so gently tightened and lightly guided his head backward to separate their mouths. 

Crowley huffed a breathy laugh and their sincere smile and open, affectionate expression were so reflective of Aziraphale's feelings he couldn't contain a joyful wiggle nor what he feared was an embarrassingly sappy grin. 

“You're just lovely!” Aziraphale said in admiration. Crowley shook their head and snorted their disagreement, but Aziraphale caught their smile go sheepish. 

“We should go out,” Crowley said eventually. “Grab coffee and get you fed. I need to throw something on.” They pushed their hand though tangled hair to smooth it back from their vision and frowned, looking upward uselessly. “Any longer in the front now 'n I'll have to start tying it up or cut it short like the back.” 

“It is a bit mussed,” Aziraphale said, absurdly proud. He climbed off Crowley and the bed before openly watching as Crowley followed far more gracefully in spite of his lankier body. 

Crowley stepped close and tucked their fingers into Aziraphale's own ruffled hair.“We all can't have perfect fluff made of stardust like you,” they teased. They brushed a kiss near Aziraphale's temple and drew back to scan the room. “I know you've got a mirror somewhere.”

Aziraphale was still stuck on how the light press of lips burned. After all that'd happened since the evening before, this casual touch while he was still unclothed startled in how real it made everything feel. 

“Um. Down in the back room of the shop, by the hat stand. Don't have one up here, I'm afraid. I'll meet you there,” he added. He experienced the giddy sort of anxiousness that accompanied excitement and tried to squelch it down. Crowley, on their part, dipped their head once in acknowledgment and turned to leave in an exaggerated, flirtatious saunter clearly meant as a performance piece to display their attributes.

He could feel his smile brighten at the absurdity of it all, and knew it'd become a full-out, adoring grin when Crowley paused by the door, swung around to give him a silly wave, then shot a betrayed glare at his own hand before disappearing into the hall. Aziraphale bounced on his toes in his effort to contain his laughter and went to his wardrobe to select the day's outfit. 

~~~~~~

They set out together not long after, walking Aziraphale's neighborhood at at sedate stroll while talking about inconsequential things. Crowley remarked on some of the changing facades on the next street over while Aziraphale built a mental list of tasks he needed to handle in the upcoming week. Their chatter felt different now, easy. It occurred to him so much of even their past social conversation revolved around their arrangement and the Apocalypse. No wonder than the last few weeks seemed so different. They'd never had this sort of freedom to just_ be _before. 

“Deep thoughts, angel?” Crowley asked as they passed Aziraphale's favorite local tailor. Their sunglasses reflected the pale sunlight struggling though a nearly solid ceiling of gray clouds, and their hands were stuffed into their pockets. 

“We know quite a bit about each other, but we don't particularly _know _ each other,” he said, still thinking. 

“Biblically?” Crowley said and grinned wicked. “Because now you're amenable, that'll be easy to take care of.”

Aziraphale hoped his eye-roll wasn't too obvious. He elbowed Crowley intentionally. “No. I meant, well, you had never been to that floor of my bookshop. I have no idea if you miracle all your clothes or if you keep a wardrobe.”

“Hey,” they defended. “I know all your favorite foods, where you like to shop, what books make you weak. Where you spent that awful summer in 1716.”

“Yes, but,” he nodded at a passing woman who he recognized from the little Indian grocery several streets over, “Do you have a pub you prefer this decade? A hairdresser, or do you wish that into being as well? Friends you meet for cards the third Thursday of the month? I couldn't answer any of that. I hadn't even been to your flat before a few weeks ago.” Whether Crowley had standing arrangements with favored humans for more... recreational purposes, he didn't ask but wondered. 

“Eh.” Crowley paused to peek into the window of a questionable appearing mobile phone store. 

Aziraphale took the moment to adjust his bowtie and straighten the lines of his topcoat and pale blue vest. He looked around Crowley's shoulder at whatever might have caught their attention but dismissed it once he saw a handful of little rectangular electronic telephones looking all the same but with wildly differing price points. “I don't even know how you spent most your free days when you weren't minding Warlock,” he pointed out. “It wasn't my business,” he said when Crowley glanced over at him from the window. “But it just shows we have rather large gaps in our knowledge about each other.”

“You have a point, I suppose,” Crowley said grudgingly. They both began moving again, and Crowley turned to walk backward and face him, much to the annoyance of others on the busy pavement. “There's a lotta new things happening.” They cocked one eyebrow over a shaded lens. “Not just-” they made a lewd gesture back and forth between themselves and Azirahaphle with their hand. 

“I won't have our friendship ruined by any of it,” he worried. He fiddled with his pinky ring but kept his eyes on Crowley's face. “It's just too important to me.” 

Crowley stopped walking and put their hands in the air in a 'who me?' gesture. A man who grumbled at them for blocking the pavement as he passed tripped over his suddenly tied-together shoelaces and face-planted.

Aziraphale glared at Crowley. 

“What?” They said, the picture of innocence. 

Aziraphale quickly snapped a miracle for the gentleman's shattered purchases to reassemble in their packaging while Crowley's lips curled into a guilty smirk. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, and much to his surprise, reached out and took hold of his hand. “Everything's different now, it's a good thing. You don't wanna go back to how things were before, do you? I don't.” They pulled Aziraphale's hand closer and brushed a kiss at the knuckles in a courtly show of affection. Pedestrians walked around them obliviously as if they were an invisible obstacle. 

“So. As if we were...dating to learn about each other? I'm well aware it's not courting these days.” He beamed at Crowley, now on more solid footing. 

“Agggh.” Crowley turned so they could begin walking again and stuffed their hands back into their pockets once they'd released Aziraphale's. “We've been friends for six thousand years. You splashed around in a tub full of holy water for me while wearing my body. I think we're beyond weird human rituals like _ dating and courting_, you absolute nerd. We're just..together. You know, like always, but with added bonus scenes.”

He huffed, perhaps a tad overdramatic, but he felt rather smug as he hooked his arm around Crowley's elbow to continue on.

The chain coffee shop they eventually wandered into featured a sterile, modern décor with enough seats to accommodate the influx of students and tourists not brave enough to venture near independent localities. A mid-morning crowd chattered amicably, taking up most the seats. A violinist in the corner performed a melancholy tune Aziraphale did not recognize, but Crowley seemed to by the way they paused to listen. 

Aziraphale already knew his order. He left Crowley near the musician to step up to a welcoming barista sporting a Victorian steam-punk aesthetic Aziraphale couldn't help but appreciate. “Classic hot chocolate with whipped cream. And...” He peeked on tip-toe over to the case and touched his tongue to his upper lip in thought. 

“The pain au chocolat isn't too cloying,” the barista suggested. He leaned forward and lifted a pierced eyebrow as if imparting a secret and lowered his voice into a faux-whisper. “Dip it into the whipped cream just enough so it's not soggy, and it's divine!” He pulled back and winked. “Only because you understand the aesthetic for non-traditional neckwear.” 

“As do you!” he said with an acknowledging nod toward the barista's ascot. “And it's nice to see someone still appreciate the elegance and simplicity of a fob watch!” He smiled kindly, unable to contain his happiness with the world, with people, with warm cocoa and a companion he adored. It was too new to feel real. He and Crowley were _something more_ together! He felt so buoyant and effervescent it appeared to diffuse into the entire shop. The violinist perked up with a peppy tune and a group of college students giggled together rather than sit with the dour faces he'd noticed upon his arrival. His smile brightened into an ecstatic grin that he shared with the barista. 

“You know, we have a meet-up for our sort you might be interested-”

The barista blinked in surprise and stopped speaking when Crowley slid into the tight space left between Aziraphale's side and the display of packaged shortbread. They propped their hip at the edge of the countertop and slipped a hand at the crook of Aziraphale's elbow in a mimic of how Aziraphale had done earier. “Dabbling in a little illicit pastry gossip, angel?” 

“Apparently, it's 'divine',” Aziraphale informed him wryly. “I'll take the pain au chocolat as well,” he said to the barista, who was observing them both with curious eyes. 

“What's fresh and hot,” Crowley asked, hitting the 't' hard and smirking until the barista seemed unable to resist an obvious once-over. 

“the medium roast?” He offered, sounding flustered. His eyes flicked between Aziraphale and Crowley and his customer-service friendly smile reappeared. 

“I like it sweet on the tongue, a good amount of crème, and very. Very. Big.” Crowley tipped their head so their fringe artfully tumbled over one fine cheekbone and one lens of their sunglasses. 

The barista fumbled the cup in his hand, and his lips formed a little round 'o'. 

“That is awful, you leave him be,” Aziraphale scolded. It was completely ruined by the humor in his tone.

Crowley's turned coyishly toward Aziraphale, and their flirtatious smirk shifted into a fond look. “Go find us a table, and I'll wait for our friend here to _heat your pastry._” They somehow found a way to infuse the last bit into a lascivious euphemism. Aziraphale rolled his eyes rather than dignify Crowley with a response. 

He ambled over to an open table near the musician and made himself comfortable. He watched as Crowley paid, too far away to hear their words, and he experienced a surge of joy when they peeked over their shoulder at him and flashed a brief smile before turning back to the barista. He knew other customers were subtly watching Crowley as well. How could they not, with how Crowley was built to be noticed, lithe and all hips, today in a fitted trouser suit so dark green it edged close to the black of their boots, ginger hair as startling as an exclamation mark. 

He'd seen Crowley at work tempting humans all slick and silver-tongued, their body an exacting tool and their sensuality a lockpick to the target's deepest desires. What Crowley seemed unaware of was how they tempted by merely existing day-to-day, effortlessly fluid with a relaxed playfulness and bewildered, almost flustered wonderment of the world, attractive in a way which drew even the most jaded eyes. 

Aziraphale glanced down at the table so as not to dwell upon the seeds of any envious thoughts. This new intimacy to their relationship was comforting, even if shared with others. He was fairly secure in their friendship, and Crowley had always saved time for him before, no matter how occupied with their own affairs. He was grateful Crowley was willing to embrace his stumbling efforts. 

An odd prickling sensation interrupted his musing. When he looked back up, the archangel Uriel was seating herself in the chair across from him, eyes hard and and back stiff. Aziraphale jerked back in such shock the chair screeched against the tile nearly louder than the ambient chatter and jaunty violin. He resisted scrambling to his feet and yelping. 

“Hello? Um, Uriel,” he was able to choke out. “I thought I made it clear I was to be left alone?” he added. He was pleased his voice didn't reveal how rattled he felt. However, he caught himself twisting his ring in his anxious tell. 

“Aziraphale.” Uriel appeared uncomfortable and awkward, but she was impeccably dressed in a dove gray suit, and she nodded at him with a regal countenance. Her lips pursed as she glanced over at Crowley waiting on their orders, still unaware. She tapped her fingernails upon the tabletop when she met Aziraphale's eyes again.

“We've abided by your...request. And if there weren't an issue, I'd continue to do so because frankly, you repulse me.” Her expression conveyed her displeasure. “You are absolutely drenched in demonic fingerprints,” she said, then shook her head. “But I'm here for information only, and I don't question how She works when disciplining angels _ like you_. The Metatron has been silent since your interference and circumvention of your judgment.” 

“My 'judgment',” Aziraphale echoed. “And you're in need of information? From me?” He shied away from her other words. His mind went swiftly to Crowley's encounter with Gabriel. “Are you following us?”

“More hunting down-” she began, but she was unable to finish because Crowley had appeared behind her, one hand clamped upon her shoulder and a breadknife pressed up against her throat. Aziraphale looked around and realized he hadn't noticed the shop had gone silent and frozen. 

“I'm happy to aid in your discorporation if you so much as glance in his direction in a way I dissslike,” Crowley spit. Their head tilted toward Aziraphale, one eyebrow arched up in question. 

“I...er, Uriel,” Aziraphale stuttered and paused. He watched as Uriel uncurled her hands palm up upon the tabletop in surrender. Her muscles were not tensed to retaliate, her expression flat. Crowley's nose flared with anger. They remained still as stone.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley prompted. 

Aziraphale was unaccustomed to holding the power in this sort of situation. It was uncomfortable. “Allow,” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Allow her to speak, but, um, stay here. Please,” he added.

He returned his attention to Uriel. “You said you needed information.” 

Crowley placed the knife on the tabletop within reach. They pulled an empty chair over and straddled it with arms hooked over the back. “I'm releasing the humans, but don't think that'll allow you any leeway.” They snapped, and the shop chatter and movement picked up. 

“Thank you,” she said, surprisingly cordial. “I'm sure you realize I don't trust either of you.”

“Obviously,” Crowley said. They were unable to settle, clearly distressed, head swiveling back and forth between both angels. 

Aziraphale's apprehension faded to make room for irritation in how Uriel's appearance had spoiled Crowley's content and jovial mood. “Heaven's behavior has not left me with much trust either,” he said, frustrated, “so let's cut to the reason you're here, shall we?” He could feel Crowley's attention focused on him, but he kept his disappointed glare upon Uriel. 

“As I said, you indicated you wanted to be left in peace,” she said. She tapped the table in emphasis. “Non-interference.” 

“We did, but I believe Adam, the Antichrist, was the one responsible for telling both sides to keep their petty bickering away from Earth's surface.” As if nuclear war was equivalent to petty bickering, he thought without voicing. 

He looked over at Crowley and saw that they were watching the exchange silently with feigned indifference while their frayed nerves revealed themselves in how their leg bounced in troubled anxiousness. Aziraphale's hands twitched in want of reaching to comfort them. He realized suddenly he _could _ do that and gently placed his hand upon Crowley's knee to still their fidgeting. 

Uriel's stare was unrelenting. “Regarding the Antichrist, I also know this demon and the child were found skulking near the tainted air base.”

“As was Gabriel,” Crowley hissed. One of their hands had covered Aziraphale's upon their leg, and they seemed to draw strength from the touch. “I notice you're fine with _his_ skulking.” 

“It was necessary,” Uriel admitted. Her gaze toward Aziraphale never softened, but it appeared as though she accepted her hypocrisy. “I am...uncomfortable... with the amount of collaboration going on between ourselves and the Adversaries. Some of our associates think differently.” Her eyes flicked over toward Crowley and back to Aziraphale. “Perhaps not in front-”

“Sorry, Crowley will be included in anything you share with me,” he said, rather sharper than usual. 

Her eyes narrowed. “It is possible there is a faction developing. One unhappy with the current leadership of both Heaven and Hell.” 

Crowley leaned forward in morbid interest bordering on skepticism. They pulled their hand from Aziraphale's to prop their wrists on the table and drum their fingertips together. “Somebody wants to overthrow Lucifer?” 

Aziraphale felt disquieted by the information.“You suspect we're part of this?” 

“Nooo, she doesn't,” Crowley said with a curious lilt to their voice.“do you?” 

“I did at one point. However, evidence suggests a long developing situation.” Her shoulders slumped for the first time since joining Aziraphale at the table. “And it appears there might be angels and demons working against both sides.” 

“The Accurate Prophecies of Goldeneye,” Aziraphale said under his breath, and Crowley's head _snapped_ to him with a confirming glance, then their attention returned to Uriel. 

Crowley stood from the chair in order to spin it around so they could sit leaning forward with their elbows propped upon the table, legs sprawling but tensed to jump to their feet if necessary.

Aziraphale found himself sitting straight up against the chair back. “Alright. Let's have a ceasefire for the time being, as it's called, shall we? Demons and angels running nilly-willy is something neither of us need.”

Uriel folded her hands upon the table as if in prayer and nodded her head once in agreement. “I have no reason to trust your answers, but I find myself as a loss. Have you seen Michael?”

“Not since...” Aziraphale bit down on his lip, nearly slipping up regarding their swap for Crowley's trial. “Not since our pointed conversation before Armageddon.”

Crowley's head tilted just slightly towards him in question. Aziraphale wished he could see their eyes. 

“They were at my trial to deliver holy water,” Crowley said and sounded rather believable to Aziraphale's ears at least. “They seemed. More comfortable than I expected.” 

Uriel looked at both of them in turn, clearly debating something.“Gabriel and I haven't seen or spoken with Michael in weeks. They've disappeared. They'd been acting suspiciously, but Sandalphon kept tabs on them until recently. And now...nothing.” 

“Oh dear,” was all Aziraphale could think to say. An archangel as prominent as Michael defying Heaven? Or were they a victim? He felt Crowley nudge his forearm and glanced over to see them slide their sunglasses down just enough for Aziraphale to meet their eyes unrestricted. 

“Double-oh-six, angel. I was kidding around before, but...I mean.” They clucked their tongue and tipped their head with meaning. 

“Are they on the surface somewhere?” Uriel broke in, sounding confused. “Have they contacted you- either of you- at all?” 

“Nothing. I haven't seen anything,” Aziraphale said, still meeting Crowley's eyes. 

Crowley knocked on the table with their knuckles, and they cocked their head toward Uriel. “I was outta town a bit. Haven't heard a thing.”

Her lips formed a tense line. She looked around the coffee shop at the humans going about their day, appearing very unsure for the first time. 

“Uriel,” Aziriphale sighed, entirely too exhausted with her distrust. She looked back over at him with an unreadable expression. “Crowley and I want to be left alone. Not to concoct some revenge scenario, not to 'bring down' both the hierarchies of Heaven and Hell, good gracious, that is ludicrous! I wanted to stop the war because I like it here. We like the humans and their creations. Look at them! I just want to be left alone to watch over them.” He could feel Crowley's eyes on him again, but he continued to watch Uriel, imploring. 

“Aziraphale.” Uriel folded her arms at her chest and shook her head. “You didn't want war. Fine. You managed it. Armageddon is thwarted. Yet you're still in league with a demon, don't you understand? You might see why I'd suspect?”

Before he could over-think it, Aziraphale took hold of Crowley's hand upon the table and tipped his chin up at Uriel proudly. “Crowley and I have been friends for all this time and now are.. are lovers. In the sense of both words and actions.” His face flamed and his heart pounded with an entirely human burst of excitement at his admission. He'd lived in dread of this moment for so many reasons that now seemed completely pointless; he didn't need Heaven's approval nor permission. 

Crowley's jaw dropped and their head swung between Uriel and Aziraphale. 

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, light as air. They threaded their fingers to grip Aziraphale's hand tight, and their entire body tilted to Aziraphale like a plant seeking the sun. Their lips remained parted in surprise and graced with the barest curl of a pleased smile. 

Uriel reared back in horror. Her expression contorted into severe disgust. “What is wrong with you!” she snarled, her voice raising for the first time. “It's abnormal!” 

“It's sex, nothing more nefarious.” He then made sure to look directly at Crowley, knowing that while his own view of their eyes was obstructed by mirrored lenses, Crowley would see him clearly, would witness his words meant for Uriel to hear but for Crowley to understand and feel. “I love Crowley. Like humans do with each other.” He looked back at Uriel, stubbornly proud of himself.

“It's not allowed. You've _heard_ the tale of the nephilim.” Her fingers gripped the table, and her eyes kept darting between them. “Not with humans, not between angels, let alone a demon!” She appeared genuinely disturbed. “It's not natural! You shouldn't even have the inclination, Aziraphale.”

“Clearly I do, but it has _nothing_ to do with the rebellion you have on your hands, does it?”

Her eyes narrowed and she pressed her palms flat on the table so she could scoot her chair back as if their proximity might taint her. “It's not my business if you want to fornicate yourself into Falling. Even if you experienced this-defect-, you should have resisted the sin to glorify anything other than the Almighty. But to choose a demon? And do so where another angel might see it?“ Uriel glared at their joined hands. “Now you're just flaunting your shameful proclivities.”

“That's absurd, why would love be shameful?” Aziraphale said, his gut churning now at her words. “I am as She made me.”

“There. Is. Something. Wrong with you,” she spit. 

Crowley head jerked in her direction, and they sneered with clenched teeth. The hand clutching Aziraphale's tightened. “You've got your hands full with another rebellion in Heaven an' angels and demons working together against Lucifer. You're really going to worry about a little diddling?” 

“The severity of one sin does not negate the other,” Uriel said harshly. She looked upward as if seeking strength and back at Aziraphale. “Nevertheless, it would be foolish of me to deny your familiarities with Earth and any shifting energies.” 

“The airfield,” Crowley cut in,clearly wanting to change the subject. “What does Gabriel think about the weird energy? I can poke into some connections.”

Aziraphale's attention darted back toward Crowley warily, but he kept his peace. 'Poking connections' in hell was he last thing Crowley needed to be doing. 

“I haven't been there,” Uriel said. “He says it feels wrong and won't elaborate.” She paused to study them both one at a time. “You'll be comforted enough to know he doesn't think either of you are bright enough to instigate any of this.”

“Charming,” Aziraphale bit out in his most caustic tone. 

“Stupid. Selfish. Traitorous. But I am led to agree with him on this point.” She stood from the table and straightened her suit. “We'll keep this...truce..for now.” 

Crowley leaned back into their chair so it tilted onto it's rear legs. “Hear that, Aziraphale? We've got a truce with the archangel of cattiness,” they said and grinned aggressively. 

She ignored him to push a card across the table. “If you are willing, this is my private contact information.” Her head turned toward Crowley, and her smile was thin and cruel. “Perhaps _you_ should carry it, demon, as it's flammable and might be lost to the boiling sulfur pools of Hell on your boyfriend's journey downward.” 

Aziraphale was suddenly queasy at her words, but the feeling was swamped by the relief elicited by her turning to leave and subsequent exit from the coffee shop. 

“What a complete wanker,” Crowley groused out and rocked the chair back onto all four legs. They squeezed Aziraphale's hand without releasing it and pulled him to his feet. “How're you doing? You were something else, just laying it out there to an archangel after all that worry yesterday,” they said in admiration. 

Aziraphale considered. His mood had dimmed, sure, but the sick, weighted feeling he'd always developed after an encounter with one of the archangels had already faded. “I'm better than expected,” he finally said.

“Well, of course. You're better than them,” Crowley said with authority while stepping well into Aziraphale's personal space. Their voice dropped low, nearly drowned out by the violin and ambient conversation. They glanced around and abruptly shoved their sunglasses atop their head. “Plus you've got me on our side, and you know I'd do anything for you,” they said softly and very serious. The golden-yellow of Crowley's eyes had overtaken every bit of white and were full with overwhelming emotion. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, breathless. He turned his head so they were nose to nose, their hands still joined, watching each other silently in their own moment as the coffee shop patrons went on with their day. 

Crowley looked away, but it only made the pink flush on their cheeks that much more visible. They released Aziraphale's hand and flicked their sunglasses back into place. “I'll bring this knife back and grab our stuff from your little admirer over at the till so we can go.” 

“Please,” Aziraphale said, then paused. “Wait. _My_ 'little admirer'? Don't be silly! If anything-” He was cut off by the press of two fingers against his lips. 

Crowley eyebrows arched up comically above their sunglasses. “Your obliviousness knows no bounds. It's fantastic.” They scooped the knife off the table and left to retrieve their order.

Aziraphale only looked back toward the chair so recently occupied by Uriel and wondered when heaven had become as foreign to him as hell.


End file.
